The Undying
by andimarie
Summary: When you're the Volturi's secretary, your greatest challenge is staying alive. After accepting the position, Dahlia decides that she will do whatever it takes to survive. But the longer she stays, the deeper she sinks. Once you're in, there's no getting out. (A/N: Give it a go and please review!)
1. Welcome to Volterra

**Alright, thanks for checking out this story! I love the Volturi, and I wish they were featured more in the story, so that's why I'm writing this. Now, I'm not entirely sure if I'm going to keep it, so this is kind of like a test run.**

**This story is rated M for language, violence, and some sexual content. **

**Lastly, even though I've singled out certain members as main characters, most of the Volturi members will be just as important. As the story progresses, other members will take on more dominant roles, while others will fall into more minor ones. **

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Chapter 1: Welcome to Volterra

The cabin rattled as the plane took off from the runway, and Jennifer was gripping the blue leather armrests so tightly that her fingertips had turned white. _Just breathe_, she kept telling herself, squeezing her eyes shut. _Just breathe_, and then she started slowly counting backwards from one hundred; and whenever the plane rocked too hard or a passenger cried in jest, "We're gonna crash!" she would start back at one hundred. Ten times she had to start over, and as her heart raced, she counted faster and faster to match the rapid speed of her pounding heart, so much that they were no longer numbers, just a jumbled string of syllables that held no value, and they brought her no comfort either.

Suddenly, the young woman beside her asked, "What's eighty-nine times sixty-four?"

Jennifer stopped counting, and her mind went blank. "What?"

"Eighty-nine times sixty-four, what's the answer?"

"What? I don't know ..." If she'd had a pen and paper, she could have solved it easily, but mental math was not a skill she'd developed. Still, she tried to solve the problem in her head, over and over, never coming up with the correct answer. Quickly, her head was overflowing with numbers, and Jennifer became overwhelmed by them all, ... but the cabin was finally still. She let out a deep sigh. _Thank goodness. _

"So, what's the answer?"

Jennifer turned her head and found a pair of friendly blue eyes staring back at her, waiting for a response. "I ... I don't know," she answered.

The blonde smiled. "Neither do I."

The two women shared a laugh, and as Jennifer's round cheeks jiggled up and down, she felt warm water dripping down her face and tasted salt on her dry lips. When she realized when was happening, her face began to flush with embarrassment, soaking her face with even more sweat.

"Here." The blonde kindly offered her a tissue, and Jennifer graciously accepted, using the soft cloth to dab her glistening face. With a few pats, the tissue was drenched with sweat, prompting the blonde to offer a second tissue. "First time flying?" she asked.

"Yeah. It's silly, I know."

"Hey, I was there once too, you know, and you handled it much better than I did. I had a panic attack upon take-off, and they had to ground the plane." She giggled at the memory. "Really, it's no big deal."

The plane hit a small bump, and Jennifer's hands instinctively went to her seatbelt, tying it tighter and tighter around her waist, creating a large bulge of fat above the grey strap.

"If you tie that any tighter, you're going to cut yourself in half," the blonde teased.

Jennifer blushed. "Sorry. Just a little nervous."

"It's okay – And I'm Katelyn, by the way."

"Jennifer. Nice to meet you."

"So what brings you to Paris: business or pleasure?" Katelyn went on, and Jennifer wondered if the woman was still trying to distract her from the bumpy flight. Women like Katelyn, who were so naturally beautiful, with their long legs and tiny waists, rarely acknowledged her let alone spoke to her.

"Pleasure, I guess," Jennifer answered. "I won a radio contest."

"Oh, really?" Katelyn's eyes lit up in excitement. "What kind of contest? Clearly, it had nothing to do with math, or you wouldn't be sitting here, right?" She laughed at her own joke, but her new friend didn't seem to find it as amusing.

"I just had to answer some stupid pop culture questions. Really, it wasn't that hard."

Katelyn nodded her head and then said without thinking, "Hopefully it isn't some scam. Boy, have I seen my fair share of those ..."

"A scam?" Jennifer's tone rose in panic. "Do you really think it's a scam?" Hundreds of scenarios were running through her mind, all ending in death. In the weeks before her trip, she had spent her nights researching all the brutal murders of young, naïve tourists that had occurred over the years, many of which were overly embellished urban legends, but they still frightened her.

"I'm sure it isn't," Katelyn said, trying to ease her worries. "The odds of that happening are slim to none."

"That's true." _I hope it's true ... _"So why are you going to Paris?"

"Work. My agent finally pulled through and got me booked for an upcoming ad campaign for some French designer." For the life of her, she could not remember his name. "He's new, I guess. Nobody really knows about him yet, but he does amazing work. I think he'll be really big one day."

"So you're a model?" Jennifer assumed, for Katelyn seemed to fit the mold in her eyes: a tall, slender frame, long, healthy hair, and a flawless, peachy complexion that didn't need makeup.

"Yeah. I've done a lot of commercial work, ... mostly with dish cleaning liquid." She flashed her perfectly manicured fingernails and cracked a modest smile. "I wash a lot of dishes, you see."

"Wow, sounds exciting!"

_Oh, it's not as glamorous as it seems_, Katelyn thought, hiding her discontent with a smile, _not by a long shot. _Truthfully, she hadn't done a real commercial in over two years, and her previous agency had just dropped her because she wasn't "fresh enough," whatever that meant. Now, she only appeared in local commercials, urging the townspeople to "Come on down to Jefferson's Grocery!" _Where our trash is your treasure ... _Old Man Jefferson paid her in coupons, and his son liked to grab her ass. But that was all behind her now, she had to remind herself; she was finally getting a new start, and she wasn't about to waste this opportunity.

Like Katelyn, many of the passengers on this particular plane were in fear of wasted opportunities. Jonathan, for instance, a man sitting three rows behind the two young women, saw this trip as a chance to piece his broken life back together. He'd made a lot of mistakes in the past, done terrible things that surely broke his mother's heart, but he was a changed man now; he had done his time, and now it was time to move on. His therapist had arranged for a transfer to a rehabilitation center in France, one that he assured was very effective in dealing with people like Jonathan. There, he could become a better man, the kind of man his mother would be proud of.

... but if that kid didn't stop kicking his seat, he was going to become the man he despised. Over and over, the kid kicked and kicked with both legs, making Jonathan's seat jerk. "Stop—kicking—my—seat." He tried to use the self-calming methods his therapist had taught him, but with every jerk, his temper was boiling hotter and hotter. "Stop—kicking—my—seat!—_Stop—kicking—my—seat!_—STOP—KICKING—MY—SEAT!" Fuming, he ripped off his seatbelt and turned around to face the eight-year-old boy, who now sat cowering in fear of the large, tattooed ex-con towering over him. "Kid, if you don't quit kicking my seat, I'm gonna rip off your fuckin' legs!"

The child's mother quickly came to his rescue, covering his innocent ears with the palms of her hands and pulling him close to shield him from this monstrous man and his obscenities. "Don't you _ever_ threaten my son!"

"Teach that little shit some manners, then!"

By now, her husband had risen from his seat. Compared to Jonathan, he could hardly be considered a man, the ex-con thought, with that button-down shirt and those thick-framed glasses. Why, he looked like the kind of man Jonathan used to beat up in high school, but now the little geek was standing up to him, full of confidence. "You will not use that kind of language in front of my family."

Jonathan wanted nothing more than to punch this guy in the face and bash his head against the window until it cracked open like a watermelon. "I'll use whatever language I want!" He clenched his fist tightly, so tightly that he might've drawn blood, but then he heard the flight attendant's soothing voice in his misshapen ear.

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to sit back in your seat, please."

He took a deep, calming breath. "The kid keeps kickin' my seat."

"Okay, I'm sorry. Sweetie, stop kicking the seats, okay?" The flight attendant smiled gently at Jonathan and slowly eased him back into his seat. "There. Now, if you need anything, just ask."

Jonathan gulped deeply, swallowing his anger. "Thank you, ma'am."

The rest his flight went smoothly, and Jonathan didn't hear a peep from the little brat sitting behind him, but the event had not been forgotten by the kid's family. The boy's mother spent the rest of the trip cursing her husband for insisting on this unplanned vacation. "This was your idea, Steven! 'Jake needs more culture in his life.' Well, how's that for culture?"

"How was I supposed to know this would happen?" Steven shot back. "This is the real world now, Joyce." _Not your fucking book club. _"Sometimes you have to deal with difficult people. But it's behind us now, so can we please just try to enjoy ourselves?"

"Oh, you can enjoy yourself all you want, but I'll be staying in the hotel."

Steven crossed his arms over his chest. "Go right ahead." _I'm going to enjoy myself no matter what you do. _A vacation this grand was something he would never have been able to afford on his salary, so winning this all-expense-paid trip was the best thing that had ever happened to him. And all it took was a little history knowledge. Really, it almost seemed too good to be true, but after a miscarriage nearly tore his marriage apart, this trip was just what his family needed, so Steven didn't have the heart to question it. At first, he told himself this was for Joyce—he just wanted to see her smile again—but maybe he just wanted to escape it all, to leave behind all the horrible memories and hope they didn't follow him.

But they were following him, he realized as they, along with several other passengers, including Jonathan, Jennifer, and Katelyn, boarded the private airport shuttle bus that would transport them to their next destination: a luxury hotel, where Jennifer would finally find peace, where Katelyn would meet her agent, where Jonathan would meet his sponsor, and where Steven hoped to put his family back together.

_It won't work_, Steven thought as watched his wife stare aimlessly out the bus window. _Our problems will be right there waiting for us when we get back._ She had barely spoken to him since they'd left their house, and he hated the silence more than the anger. Before, she would lash out at him in a mad rage without provocation, throwing whatever she could get her fingers on: pillows, lamps, dishes—anything. But now she didn't even look at him. She spent her days alone, and when she wasn't alone, she was with her friends or with their son, acting as his protector from anyone that might do him harm. She was overly protective of him, many thought, but he couldn't blame her. He wanted to protect her, too ... to be able to touch her and ...

"Gah!" Steven jerked his foot away from the aisle as a river of yellow, chunky bile came rushing down. Behind him, Jennifer sat slouched over her seat, covering her mouth with her trembling hands.

"I'm sorry," she sobbed. "I'm sorry."

Katelyn gently took the girl's shoulders and pulled her up. "It's okay," she said. "It's okay." She pulled out some tissues and wiped her mouth, but no amount of tissues could sop up the mess that was now trickling across the floor.

"You've got to be kidding me!" Jonathan cursed his luck and quickly pulled his feet up. "It smells ... God, it smells!" He used his shirt to cover his nose, but if the trip lasted too much longer, he was going to end up getting sick, too. He could already feel his stomach churning.

"I've never flown before," Jennifer murmured, and then she started babbling incoherently as she cried in her seat.

Not knowing what else to do, Katelyn tried to console her by stroking the top of her head. "We're almost there," she whispered. "We're almost there. You'll be okay soon." _Why isn't the driver stopping? _she thought as she glared at the back of the driver's head. _Can't he see someone's sick? _

Jennifer threw up three more times before the bus finally stopped, and when she glanced out the window and saw an unfamiliar sight, she felt sick again. She had seen a picture of the hotel, many pictures in fact, but this medieval city square looked nothing like any of them. The unfamiliar stone walls were closing in like an invading army, and they carried an Italian flag.

"It's Italian," she murmured, but no one heard her. "Why is it Italian?"

The bus driver stood and faced them. "Please, follow me."

"Where the hell are we?" Jonathan asked. "You're supposed to take us to the hotel!"

"First, a tour. Please."

"A tour?" Joyce repeated. "Nobody said anything about a tour. Steven, what is he talking about? You said this shuttle would take us straight to the hotel."

Steven didn't want to make a scene. "It's just a quick stop. We can spare a few minutes to take in some French culture."

_But it's Italian_, Jennifer thought. _Does no one else notice?_

Apparently, no one else had noticed, for they all rose from their seats and followed the driver. Jennifer wanted to stay behind, and she was clinging to her seat with both hands, but Katelyn pried her off and guided her off the bus with her—and all the while, Jennifer was still shrieking, "It's Italian! It's Italian!"

It was indeed Italian. Unbeknownst to them, they were entering the rustic city hall of Volterra, Italy, a secluded city seated upon a high rocky hill and enclosed by thick, sturdy walls that dated all the way back to the Neolithic period. A charming city, no doubt, but it was not Paris, and when people spoke, they were not speaking in French, but few of the tourists noticed, and those who did quickly forgot once they saw the stunning woman who would become their tour guide. A living statue, many called her, with deep mahogany hair and striking violet eyes.

"Welcome," she said in a smooth, melodic voice. "Please, follow me."

At her call, they all followed, and the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

. . .

After lighting a cigarette, the bus driver strolled off toward one of the nearby cafés, abandoning his bus and leaving it prey to a duo of local pickpockets who frequently targeted unsuspecting tourists. Often described as the safest city in Tuscany, Volterra was the ideal hunting ground for petty criminals because only the locals kept their guard, but it was the tourists who had all the money anyway. It was easy to lift a few bucks, steal a watch or two, but the best stuff, many knew, was waiting on the tour buses.

"Ugh, what did I just step in?" The lanky man of twenty-two lifted his black boot and saw it dripping with a chunky, smelly liquid. "Man, these are new, too," he complained, wiping his dirty boot on one of the seats. "Dahlia, somebody blew chunks in here. You should smell it!"

His accomplice, a young woman of the same age, was keeping watch outside. "I can smell it, and it's disgusting. Hurry up, so we can get out of here!"

"I'm hurryin', I'm hurryin' ... _American dollars?_ What the hell am I supposed to do with that? – Oh well, beggars can't be choosers, right?"

"Vince, quit fooling around and get your ass moving! We don't have that much time before they come back."

"But they never come back ... Don't you find that odd?"

"Everything about that building is odd," Dahlia replied, eying the city hall with great curiosity.

A few times a month, not often enough to create suspicion, a strange bus would pull up, drop off some tourists, and then leave soon after, without its passengers. Nobody really thought anything of it, and they had no reason to because Volterra was such a safe, pleasant city, and the city hall was a warm, inviting place that offered many perfectly normal tours to locals and tourists alike. But then there were other tours, the stranger tours that nobody really understood but didn't dare question.

"There's no security, you know," Vince said. "Not once have I seen a guard. It's like they think nobody can steal from them." He smirked. "Perhaps it's a challenge."

"Perhaps," she agreed. _But there's definitely something weird about that place. _

. . .

Inside, the enchanting tour guide was leading the group of tourists around the building, but they didn't care about the paintings on the walls or the sculptures that lined the halls; to them, the greatest work of art was this woman, who mystified them all. With their cameras and camera phones, they took pictures of her, dozens of pictures, and men and women alike tried to engage in conversation with her, but the woman always brushed them off and led them further on, climbing the stairs lower and lower, bringing them to a vast labyrinth of tunnels that was so complicated, a man could have spent his entire life trying to escape and never find his way out. But this woman knew the path, and she knew where it ended.

With her eager flock behind her, the woman entered a great hall carved from rich alabaster stone, as ornate as a grand cathedral, with hand-painted murals and intricate stone carvings. But what struck the tourists most were the three golden thrones standing upon the dais, where three very peculiar men sat, dressed all in black and carrying a thick aura of aristocracy. They were angels, the tourists thought, angels sent from above, more beautiful than any man, with skin as white as the stone that formed the walls; but their eyes were far from angelic, red as blood, burning with a deep hunger.

The man in the middle—Aro was his name—rose from his chair and stepped down from the dais. "Welcome to Volterra," he greeted them with a cheerful smile that reached all the way up to his brilliant red eyes, and dozens of camera flashes went off, trying to capture this gallant man who seemed utterly ageless. "I do hope you enjoyed your stay." His eyes flashed a shade darker. "We greatly appreciate your sacrifice."

Suddenly, the great doors closed behind them, and the tourists became aware of the imminent danger. Like a herd of panicked deer, the screaming crowd dispersed as many tried to escape, pushing and shoving each other to get ahead. As they fled, dark shapes appeared to be flying around the hall, running and pouncing with great speed, and biting their prey like wild animals. Clutching his bleeding neck, Jonathan slammed right into Jennifer, and he fell on top of her, pinning her to the floor with his dead weight. Jennifer tried to pull herself out from under him, and as her fingernails scrapped against the stone floor, her fingers dipped into a warm puddle of blood, where Katelyn's perfect hand lay, fingers twitching for a few seconds and then falling still. Jennifer screamed, but her voice was indistinguishable from the rest of the chorus.

The screaming stopped as quickly as it had started, and then there was a loud, unanticipated knock at the door. An unexpected visitor. The three men returned to their seats, moving so quickly that their feet didn't even seem to touch the ground. After composing himself, Aro wiped the blood from his lower lip. "Open the door, Antony."

At his command, the guard opened the doors, allowing a most surprising guest to enter the great hall: the mayor of Volterra himself, Michele Distefano, a highly ambitious man with excellent taste—or so he often declared. He avoided the dead bodies out of repulsion rather than fear, for he did not want any blood stains on his brand new suit, one of the many benefits of this new alliance.

Aro stood out of respect. "My friend, what a pleasant surprise. So seldom do we receive visits from upstairs."

"And for good reason," said Caius, who had been skeptical of this arrangement from the start. To align with the humans was a mistake, he thought, and Aro had given them too much power. Such power was dangerous. Such power could go to a man's head.

"There is no need for hostility," the mayor replied calmly. "I only came to extend my sincerest thanks."

"Yes," Aro said, "we must congratulate you on your reelection. What a victory! ... Such a pity, what happened to your opponents, though, but Death is indiscriminate in his choices. No man is immune." He stepped down from the dais and held out his hand to shake. "May this term be as prosperous as the last."

"I believe it will." The mayor's gaze remained on the white hand that lingered before him. It seemed like a friendly gesture at first glance, but it was a trap in disguise. The mayor was no fool, and he would not shake this man's hand. "I fear I have wasted much of your time. I'll see myself out now."

"Do come again," Aro said, but as soon as the doors closed, his smile faded. _The mayor knows much_, he thought. _Perhaps too much. _

"He had no right to barge in like that," Caius declared. "Such meetings are to be prearranged. He cannot just come and go as he pleases."

"Yes, it was quite rude," agreed the third man, Marcus, with a very slow and laborious delivery, as if he lacked the will to even form words.

"A forgivable offense, nonetheless," Aro concluded upon returning to his seat. "But I do wonder why Adrianna failed to announce his visit. Such behavior is inexcusable." He looked to the mahogany-haired woman who was slowly making her way toward the door. "Heidi, find her please, and bring her to my private chambers. She has a lot of explaining to do."

"Yes, Master." Heidi bowed her head and exited the hall.

_That stupid bitch_, she thought as she stormed down hallway, heels pounding against the stone, a less than graceful motion, but she saw no point in maintaining the sweet, elegant façade that received so much praise. _When I find her ... _

She approached the front desk, where Adrianna usually sat painting her nails and reading magazines, and found it empty. _She ran away_, she realized. _That idiot actually tried to run away. Does she really think she can escape the Volturi—escape Demetri? He will find her, and when he does, she will wish she never applied for this position. _

"Looking for something?" Demetri, a tall, slender man, dressed in a high-collared black jacket, emerged from the elevator, walking casually with his hands behind his back, displaying the perfect gentleman's posture.

"Adrianna is gone."

"Gone?" His red eyes shimmered with hidden secrets. "How unfortunate. She was a pretty one."

"A very pretty one." _And Demetri has a weakness for beautiful women. _"I will need to find a replacement for her, and soon."

"You could ask the mayor to send someone from upstairs," Demetri suggested. "He has many beautiful women working for him, or so I've been told."

Heidi heard footsteps upstairs, quiet to the average ear but thunderous to hers. They might as well have been stomping. The day was late, too late for any of the staff to be walking around, as they often left by five o'clock. _It appears we have some thieves in our midst_, she thought.

"Olivia would be quite fitting, I think," Demetri went on. The mayor's press secretary was as beautiful as she was smart, a vast improvement from their previous employees.

"I don't think that will be necessary," Heidi said, a smirk tugging at her lips. "I may have already found someone. Excuse me." She walked past Demetri and entered the elevator herself, and just before the doors closed, she saw Demetri wearing that sly smile he always wore after one of their young, beautiful secretaries disappeared.

Demetri ran his fingers along the front desk. "Poor Adrianna. She will be missed."

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**So that's the first chapter. As I said, I'm not sure if I'm going to keep this, so reviews are really important at this point. If you think this is a story you might be interested in, let me know. If nobody's interested, I'll probably drop it and just focus on my other story. **


	2. An Offer You Can't Refuse

Chapter 2: An Offer You Can't Refuse

At eight o'clock, Michele Distefano was the last to exit the city hall, departing three hours later than the rest of his staff. A hardworking man, his constituents called him, a good man, fair and consistent in his policies; he was also a family man who dined with his wife every night and rewarded his children with top positions on his staff. Olivia, his eldest daughter and press secretary, was at his side, as he preferred her to be. They descended the stairs together, his arm draped around her back, and when her short skirt started to hike too far up her thigh, he threw her a stern look. "Like it or not," he said, "you are a public figure now, and you will conduct yourself as such."

Olivia's lips curled into an innocent smile. "I haven't forgotten, Father." She placed a quick kiss on his cheek, and then the two stepped into the shiny, black luxury car waiting to take them to the restaurant. As the car pulled away, two men were watching from the roof of a small café across the street, the kind of place the mayor and his family would never occupy.

"Just look at them," Vince said, staring out from beneath the brim of his black hat. "I wonder what a car that fancy smells like. It must smell nice." He looked at the man beside him, who seemed like a giant even in a crouching position, a great boulder of solid muscle. "Have you ever been in a car that expensive?"

Émile's answer came in the form of a deep affirmative grunt.

"When?"

"None of your damn business." He glared at the car as it passed through the borders of his vision, a car more expensive than everything he owned, and it was traveling to a place denied to people like him. "It's bullshit," he said, his subtle French accent becoming more pronounced as his anger grew. "It's all bullshit! Zey say Volterra is ze best city in Italy, but for who? In the past ten years, zey 'ave built two 'otels and renovated four museums. Meanwhile, our neighborhood is falling into ze gutter. We deserve more, no?"

Vince shrugged. "Well, we don't exactly count 'cause we're not the ones paying their salaries. We're not even citizens, technically."

Émile scowled at the scrawny younger man, and then he snatched the hat right off his head and tossed it into the wind. "When I want your opinion, I'll ask for it. Until zen, keep your mouth shut."

Jaw hanging, Vince felt the top of his head where his hat once sat. "That was brand new. Found it on the bus this afternoon, sitting there all pretty like it was waiting for me."

"So steal a new one."

"I'll never find one as nice," Vince grumbled back. "I liked that hat." _Asshole. _

Just below them, using the darkness of the alley to shield her, Dahlia was picking through the café's trash, searching for any edible morsel of food that wasn't rotten and crawling with maggots. Toward the top, beneath a layer of paper napkins and disposable coffee cups, she found a half-eaten, coffee-soaked sandwich dipped in pastry cream. It didn't smell very good, Dahlia had to admit, and it would taste worse, but her growling stomach was very convincing.

"Dahlia," Émile hissed at her, "what are you doing? Get away from zere before someone catches you!"

Dahlia stared up at him with her large brown eyes but said nothing in return, and then she brought the sandwich to her lips, ready to eat. Unfortunately, before she could take a bite and satisfy her hunger pains, Émile jumped down from the roof and slapped the sandwich out of her hands. Dahlia would have picked it back up if Émile hadn't stepped on it, mushing the bread into the ground.

"What ze 'ell are you doing?" he growled, seizing her arms, and her biceps were so tiny that he could completely close his fists around them. One good squeeze could have broken both her arms, and Émile knew that. "You don't eat food out of ze garbage!"

Vince was watching from the roof. "Aww, leave the kid alone. She's hungry."

"You shut up!" He turned toward Dahlia, and his blue eyes softened just a little, but the anger was still there, hidden beneath a smile. "You don't need to eat food out of ze garbage." Gently, he brushed away a strand of hair that had escaped her ponytail and lightly caressed her cheek as he pulled back. "I said I'd take care of you, no?"

"Yes." Dahlia's voice was as quiet as a mouse's squeak.

Émile kissed her cheek. "Good girl."

_Yeah, you take care of her alright,_ Vince thought as he rolled his eyes. He didn't have to look to know that Dahlia had welts on her arms; it happened every time Émile stopped by for one of his visits, which were growing fewer and fewer with the passing months. Sure, he would give her some money, maybe a few clothes, but it wasn't enough, and it certainly didn't justify smacking her around as much as he did. But Dahlia would never speak out against him; no, she needed him. Émile had a talent for sucking the strength out of people, a skill that had a most profound effect on Dahlia. Every time he went away, he took a little piece of her with him, and soon there would be nothing left of her, nothing. In a perfect world, Vince would take Dahlia away from all this, maybe even get her back home, but that was never going to happen, so he had no choice but to watch the poor kid suffer.

"Vince," Émile called, "let's go. We've waited long enough."

Vince had intended to hit the city hall tonight, but not with Émile. As soon as the Frenchman heard about the plan, he appointed himself as the leader, and he would take most of the loot for himself, as he always did. Suddenly, this plan seemed like a bad idea, but it was impossible to change Émile's mind once it was set on something, and his mind was set on the city hall.

"What ze 'ell is zis door made of?" Over and over, Émile rammed into the door with his shoulder, expecting it to give way as they usually did, but this door was not budging.

"Wood, I think," Vince replied smartly, and then he shoved Émile aside and gave the iron handle a quick twist and a light push. Just like that, the door opened with a quiet creak. Smirking, he leaned against the door frame. "It's always the hard way with you."

Émile grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and threw him forward. "Just get in!"

Before following her companions inside, Dahlia stared inquisitively at the door. "Why haven't they locked it? Could someone still be inside?"

"Nobody's here," Vince assured her. "All the lights are out. Everybody's gone."

"Good news for us. Bad news for zem." Émile snatched a vase from the end table and looked it over for a moment before setting it back down. "Zis is no good to me. Where do zey keep all ze good stuff?"

Vince shrugged. "Upstairs, maybe."

Dahlia stayed on the main floor while Émile and Vince searched upstairs. _Art is no good to him?_ she wondered as she admired the many paintings that lined the walls. _I bet these could fetch a good price, though I wouldn't have the slightest clue what to do with them or who to sell them to._ She recognized a few of the men depicted—previous mayors, she thought, but their names had long escaped her memory. Dahlia knew little about art or its history, but she could appreciate it nonetheless. It was astonishing, really, to be surrounded by such beauty, and she couldn't' help but feel a little out of place in there, like she didn't really belong. If the staff had seen her, they would have surely kicked her out because she smelled of the streets and was tracking mud onto their antique rugs. Dahlia felt most guilty about that, and she had thought to remove her shoes, but before she could slip them off, a most peculiar painting caught her eye. It was hanging in one of the old conference rooms, hidden away from everything else—a great offense in her opinion, for it was absolutely stunning, reminiscent of the old times, when kings used to rule and throw large, extravagant balls. This particular painting seemed to be depicting one of those balls, and when Dahlia gazed at it, she was suddenly transported to that period, to a grand ballroom filled with hundreds of nobles dressed their finest clothes. Slowly, the orchestra began to play a lovely song, and Dahlia started to dance around the room, letting herself get swept away by the music in her mind, slipping further and further from reality.

Dahlia greatly preferred her dreams over reality. In her dreams, her stomach was always full and she never got sick. In her dreams, the water was fresh and ever-flowing. In her dreams, she wore dresses made of silk and her hair smelled of lavender. In her dreams, she wasn't afraid. But when the music stopped, it all came back to her, the hunger first and then the fear.

"Shit, someone's coming!" Émile shouted, and Dahlia heard their loud footsteps thudding against the floor as they scrambled to escape. She hurried to join them, but she was not fast enough, and they whizzed right past her and fled out the door, leaving the panicked young woman behind.

"Wait!" she desperately called. "Wait!" and her feet stopped moving even though her mind was telling her to keep running. _They left me. They left me. _

Behind her, she heard heels softly clicking against the stone as a woman emerged from the shadows, moving slowly and gracefully, her red dress flowing behind her. The men's loud stomps had caught Heidi's sensitive ears, and she knew they were men right away, for only men walked with such heavy feet. But among them there was also a more delicate pair of feet, which shuffled timidly across the room, and that was what drew Heidi's attention.

"Please," Heidi said once she saw the fear creep into the young girl's eyes, "don't be afraid. You are not in trouble."

Dahlia's lips were quivering as she tried to explain herself. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—I just—I didn't have a choice. Please, don't call the police!"

Heidi placed a comforting hand on the girl's trembling shoulder. "Relax, dear. I said you weren't in trouble, didn't I? I have no intention of calling the police."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Come with me." Heidi's violet eyes sparkled like amethyst, coaxing Dahlia into a state of blissful intoxication, and she forgot about all her fear, all her hunger, and all her pain. She just wanted to keep staring at those beautiful eyes and follow them wherever they wanted to take her.

. . .

Demetri hadn't moved since Heidi left, and while he waited for her to return with the new candidate, he relished in the memory of Adrianna's first appearance. It happened a month ago, but the day was still fresh in his mind. He smelled her before he saw her; the sweet scent of her floral perfume made his mouth water. She herself was a delicate flower, with legs as long as stems and lips as soft as petals, and her skin was warm and supple; when she got excited, tiny beads of sweat would cling to her body and glisten like the morning dew. A goddess among men, she was, and as Demetri thought of her, he couldn't help but wish he had delayed her final moments just a little. A woman that sweet was to be savored, but Demetri often lacked self-control in such situations. The Italian beauty was just too delectable to ignore.

"Poor Adrianna," he said. "You left us too soon, my dear." _But there will be others. There always is. _

Of course he wondered what the new candidate would look like, as any man would. Traditionally, he preferred shapely brunettes with olive complexions and devilishly charming smiles, women like Olivia Distefano, for instance. Yes, he'd had his eye on the mayor's daughter for quite some time, but he was under strict orders to never approach her or any member of the mayor's staff. Still, that didn't mean he couldn't look. While she worked, her office door was always wide open, inviting anyone to peek inside. At night, she kept her windows uncovered, even when changing for bed, and she knew exactly what she was doing. She was not as innocent as she led her father to believe.

Putting Olivia aside, for Demetri knew he could never have her, he decided that any woman would suffice as long as she was young and beautiful—intelligence was the least of his concern, provided she could read and write. But the very last thing Demetri wanted was for Heidi to just grab some random woman off the street, and that's exactly what he was about to get.

He could smell her before she even stepped off the elevator; the girl was drenched in a putrid mixture of sweat, dirt, and garbage. With her old, worn out sneakers, she tracked mud across their polished stone floor, leaving behind a trail of tiny brown shoeprints. A walking corpse, he considered her, in both appearance and smell. Her raggedy sweatshirt, which might have once been blue but was now permanently stained brown, hung on a curveless, bony frame that stood awkwardly slouched forward. This woman, this girl—this child!—had absolutely no elegance whatsoever, and it made Demetri sick just to be in her presence, so when Heidi passed by, he grabbed her by the arm and hissed, "Since when are you so charitable?"

Heidi smirked. "What do you mean? We need a new secretary, do we not? I believe she is more than qualified for the position."

"Yes, but she's so ..." _Repulsive_, he wanted to say, but the words were unnecessary. _She's doing this despite me_, he realized._ Very clever, Heidi. Very clever, indeed. What better way to protect a woman than by hiding her behind a shroud of ugliness. _"Lovely," he went on despite himself, stealing a glance at the unfortunate creature beside her. "She is absolutely lovely."

"I'm glad you agree." Then she returned her attention to the gawky thing next to her. "Come along, dear. There's someone I'd like you to meet."

. . .

Aro was sitting at his desk while he waited for Heidi to return. The desk, an antique that dated all the way back to the 19th century, was a new addition to his private chambers. The idea came to him while visiting the mayor's office, which contained a most beautiful ebony desk imported all the way from Africa. Previously, he'd seen no use for such furniture, but now that he had a desk of his own, he felt more professional, like a true politician. He was so impressed with this new feeling that he ordered desks for Caius and Marcus as well, but they didn't seem to appreciate them as he did.

Aro sighed and put his feet up on the desk. "Something is missing," he thought aloud, and his eyes focused on a disturbingly bare wall. "A painting. Yes, that's just what I need to make this room complete. How can I accept guests in such an incomplete room?"

A soft knock on the door prompted him to lower his feet and sit up straight. "Come in."

Heidi entered the room as expected, but when he saw the unfamiliar girl in her company, he was most surprised, though he didn't show it on his face. "Where is Adrianna?" he asked upon standing.

"Adrianna has ... left us, I'm afraid."

"I see." Aro clapped his hands together and pressed them to his lips. "That is most unfortunate." The frown remained on his face for only a moment before he covered it with a brilliant smile directed specifically at the new young lady in his presence. "My name is Aro." Slowly, he extended his hand out to her, his palm fully displayed, enticing her to make contact. "And who might you be, my dear?"

Dahlia's tentative fingers froze upon touching his pale skin, sending unpleasant shivers down her spine, but when she tried to pull away, Aro's icy grip ensnared her, clutching her so tightly that he started cutting off her circulation.

Aro closed his eyes as a great surge of insufferable thoughts engulfed his mind all at once, and none of them were his own. He could see every memory, hear every thought, and feel every emotion that Dahlia had ever had, even ones that she had long forgotten. Pain, there was so much pain, and fear—he felt so exposed, so vulnerable—and he saw men all around, laughing and screaming, beating and raping. The thoughts and memories just kept coming and coming, and her screams were ringing in his ears like a siren, driving him mad. He couldn't take it anymore!

With a jerk, he retracted his hand, and his mind finally quieted. Really, only a few seconds had passed since their hands touched, but in that short time, Aro had felt an entire lifetime of thoughts and emotions. _Such powerful memories_, he mused, and even his own thoughts were now too much for his sensitive mind. He would need an entire day of silence to completely recover from that onslaught.

"You," he finally managed to say, "have lived a very troubled life."

His message caught Dahlia slightly off guard. "Well, who hasn't?"

Unsatisfied with her response, Aro searched her eyes and found not even a shred of the pain and suffering he had heard in her thoughts. _Has she blocked out all those memories? _he wondered. _Or is she just pretending? _It was hard to tell, even for him.

"Yes," he relented, "but to be all alone in a foreign country must be especially difficult for you, Dahlia."

At that, Dahlia's eyes widened. "How do you know my name?"

_I know a lot more than that, my dear. _But he refused to answer her question, deeming it unimportant given the current circumstances, so he seated himself at his desk and steered the conversation into a more appropriate topic. "I have a proposition for you! Given Adrianna's unexpected departure, a new position on my staff has opened up. Now, that position can be yours, if you so choose."

"You're ... offering me a job?"

Aro leaned forward. "Oh, much more than that. I am offering you an escape from all your troubles, Dahlia. You'll no longer have to worry about money or food. We can provide everything for you: a fresh meal, a warm bed to sleep in, and all the money you can spend. You can have anything you want, and I mean _anything_. All you have to do is say, yes."

"All I have to do is say, yes?" _And I can have anything I want. No more hunger. No more pain. No more fear. – But I have heard this all before, so many times, and I know by now that when something sounds too good to be true, it always is. _

"I ..."

From the great hall came a woman's scream, high and shrill. Jennifer, one of the Volturi's unfortunate visitors, had somehow managed to survive the slaughter and, largely due to the mayor's unexpected visit, avoid detection. Once the hall was empty and waiting to be cleaned, she emerged from her hiding spot beneath a heavy layer of corpses. Heidi and Aro heard her first, and they were not pleased with the mistake of their waste disposal crew.

_One job_, Aro angrily thought. _They have one job, and they can't do it right?_

Dahlia stood with a fright. "I – I should go," she stammered, and then she bolted right out the door.

"Shall I retrieve her?" Heidi asked, waiting obediently for her master's command.

"That won't be necessary," Aro replied calmly. _She is desperate and alone, the perfect candidate. _"She will be back."

. . .

_It's always too good to be true! _Dahlia thought as she raced down the hallway as fast as her skinny legs would let her. It was a scream she had heard, a woman's scream, and that was all she needed to know. By now, she understood that it was best not to ask questions when hearing suspicious things; in fact, it was best not to get involved at all, and that was what she was going to do, so when a screaming, blood-soaked woman came flying at her, her first reaction was to just push her away and keep running.

"Help me, please!" Jennifer cried as she struggled to get back on her feet. "Help me!"

_I'm sorry! I'm sorry! _Ignoring Jennifer's pleas, Dahlia jumped into the elevator and frantically pushed every button, hoping one would take her away from this horrible place. As the doors closed, she saw Jennifer limping toward her, begging her to stop. "Please, don't leave me! Please! I don't wanna die!"

_Hurry_, Dahlia thought as she anxiously waited for the doors to close. _Please, hurry! _

Jennifer's bloody hand banged against the doors just as they closed. "No!" She pounded on the doors with her fists again and again. "No! No! No!" Slowly, her cries quieted as she sunk to the floor in defeat, and then she started to sob. "I don't wanna die ... I don't wanna die ..."

"Don't be afraid," she heard someone say in a child's voice, soft and nonthreatening. When Jennifer looked up, she saw a little girl, no older than ten to her eyes, with a tiny, round face and large, doll-like red eyes, so innocent, so pure. "Fear is only in your mind," the girl said, and as those words left her lips, a spark set off in those deceptive eyes of hers, and she smirked with all the sadism of a sardonic angel of death.

"Pain."

* * *

**... Jane creeps me out, not gonna lie. They all have their creepy moments, but she's the worst without a doubt. And I know I butchered that French accent, but I hope that doesn't completely deter you from this story. ****Anyway, thanks for reading.**

**Please, review!**


	3. The Gutter

Chapter 3: The Gutter

"It's not my fault," Dahlia told herself over and over as she rode the elevator up to the main floor. "There was nothing I could do. She was as good as dead already." But she had heard her shouts, and she had heard her cries, and still she turned aside. She could hear her even now, her screams so loud and full of agony that God himself probably could have heard her. _So let Him help her_, Dahlia decided. _If God exists, then He will save her—not me. I'll have no part in it. _

Once the doors opened, Dahlia stepped out and quickly made her way toward the exit, and she was still so tightly wound that when she came upon a man she did not know, she jumped back and let out a frightful shriek.

"Excuse me, miss," said the young man in a voice so kind. "I didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?"

Dahlia nodded her head, but she kept her distance, slowly backing away as he tried to advance, his hands up as a gesture of peace. He spoke gently to her, and Dahlia couldn't take her eyes off his beautiful hands, hands clean and perfectly kept, so unlike her own, which were caked with dirt and covered with painful sores. She wondered what his hands felt like, if they were as soft as they appeared.

"Has something happened?" the man asked. "Shall I take you to the hospital? To the police?"

"No!" Dahlia shouted suddenly, catching the man off guard, and then she ran out the door before he could stop her.

"Wait!" the man called, but she was already gone. "What's her problem?" he wondered aloud as he scratched the top of his head, and then he looked around, wondering where she had come from. "A poor girl, no doubt, the scum of the streets. By keeping these doors unlocked, we invite them all in ... But there was such fear in her eyes. What made her so afraid? What has she seen?" Already, he could feel a headache coming on, forcing him to rub his temple. "Oh, I've had enough of this day. Too much work, not enough play."

He exited the city hall and descended the stairs alone, his tall figure casting a great shadow on the staircase. When the night's chill came upon him, he lifted the collar of his jacket in one smooth motion. _A good drink is what I need_, he thought. _Something to warm my bones and numb my mind for the night. _But his drink would have to wait, for there was a car parked at the bottom of the stairs, its passenger impatiently awaiting his company. His work was never done.

Inside the car sat Michele Distefano with a bottle of red wine that he'd already started to enjoy—a very rude gesture, but he needed something to satisfy him during the long wait. Before drinking, he swirled the liquid around in his glass, admiring the wine's clarity and color. When the passenger door finally opened, Michele looked up at the young man and asked, "Do you prefer red or white wine?"

The man was slightly taken aback by his question. "I suppose it depends on the occasion."

"And for this occasion?"

"I'm afraid I'll need something a bit stronger than wine tonight," the younger man answered honestly as he took his seat, but still he was offered a glass of his own, and he drank it without protest, gulping the entire thing down in one shot.

"That is no way to drink a wine as fine as this," Michele scolded in a fatherly tone. "You must savor every last drop. Honestly, Nicolas, where did you learn your manners?"

Nicolas smirked. "From my father."

"And what a man he must be!" Chuckling, Michele poured him another glass. "With respect this time, my boy. Now, what news do you have for me?"

Going silent, Nicolas's brown eyes fell to the wine in his glass, its color as red as blood. "Adrianna is gone."

"Gone?" Michele pulled his glass away too fast, spilling wine onto his chin. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Her apartment is empty, and she won't answer her phone. Do you think she was found out?"

Michele dabbed his wet chin with his handkerchief. "No, I don't think so. If she had been found out, we would know about it. But this is troubling news. We'll need someone to replace her."

"I agree."

Suddenly, Michele was no longer thirsty, and what a shame it was for such a lovely wine to go to waste. "Who was that girl who came running out of the city hall just moments ago? Their new candidate?"

Nicolas thought back to the shaken young woman who had fled so suddenly. "I highly doubt that," he replied. "She's just some street urchin who probably snuck in to escape the cold. Really, she doesn't fit the type."

"Nevertheless, I want you to bring me whatever information you can. I want to know who she is, where she came from, and what she is doing in my city. If she is their new candidate, I need to meet her."

"I will do all I can. Now, is there anything else you need from me tonight?"

"No, that will be all."

Nicolas set down his wine glass and exited the vehicle. "Have a good night, sir."

"Nicolas," Michele said, catching the man's attention just before he closed the door, "your mother was unhappy that you missed dinner again tonight."

"Right. I'll make it up to her, I promise."

"You'd better. Have a good night."

Nicolas closed the door and watched the car drive away. "Goodnight, Father." The night's chill hit him again, making him shiver. "And now for a drink."

With his hands shoved into his coat pockets, Nicolas strolled down the street, heading in the general direction of his favorite bar, but his legs were not deliberate in their steps; they were just wandering around, not because of the wine but because his mind was unfocused, weighed down by troubling thoughts—thoughts of Adrianna. _She begged me to get her out of there_, he remembered, picturing her tear-filled eyes. _She said she was afraid. They were going to kill her, she cried, and she came to me and I did nothing for her. _

As he neared the bar—how he'd managed to get there, even he couldn't say—an old man stumbled into him, smelling of sweat and booze, his speech slurred as he begged for Nicolas's spare change. "Even the smallest coin counts, sir," he murmured. The man, a desperate old drunkard, was one of the rats that scurried about at night and stalked all the bars, hoping for somebody to indulge in his addiction.

"Please, sir," the man said, blowing his rancid breath right in Nicolas's face. "I needa drink. Just one." As he spoke, his hands were inching toward Nicolas's coat pockets.

Gritting his teeth, Nicolas roughly shoved the old man aside, making him stagger back and fall to the ground. "Piss off!" he spat. "Go back to the gutter where you came from!" The man didn't move, and he didn't speak, but Nicolas was still so angry that he delivered a swift kick to the man's ribs, and when he cried out, Nicolas kicked him again and again until he was silent; then he readjusted his coat, smoothed out his hair, and entered the bar, where he would stay until closing time and lose all memory of the incident.

Spitting up blood, the old man struggled to get to his feet, and incoming patrons just walked right by him. He cursed all the people who passed him by, but he expected no less. _This city is going to hell_, he thought,_ and they can all go down with it! _He laughed at his own cruel judgments, a loud, manic laugh that caught the attention of a young couple passing by. The woman recoiled, her eyes full of fear, and her lover protectively tightened his arm around her. "Don't listen to him," he said. "He's just a crazy drunk."

The old man chuckled at that. _Yeah, that's what I am, just the old, crazy drunk. Quick, hide your children and your wives!_ Finally, he found his footing, but after taking a few steps forward, he was on the ground again, though he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. "Ugh, I need to stop drinking."

After pulling himself up for the second time, the old man sluggishly made his way down the desolate street, being sure to stay within the street lamps' glowing path because he was afraid of the dark, deathly afraid. Bad things happened in the dark, the kinds of things that only crazy old men liked to spew on about. Demons lurked in there, he believed, and they wore the faces of angels, but nobody believed him when he told the tale.

Above him, one of the street lamps started to flicker, making the old man nervous. _They're coming_! he thought, and so he started to run as fast as he could, his eyes nervously flickering to every dark street corner and alleyway. _Stay in the light! Stay in the light!_ But the lamps were going out one after another, as if an invisible hand was snuffing them all out. Soon, there was only one light shining above him, like a beacon sent straight from the heavens, and he sought shelter beneath it and prayed it would protect him from the darkness and its evils. He could sense the demons were near, watching and waiting from a place he couldn't see.

"Help!" he cried, but nobody could hear him in the dead of night, and those who could, ignored him. He even saw one woman close her window. "Curse this city! Curse you all!"

... and then the lamp above him started to flicker and buzz. "No," he said, his voice weak and full of despair. "Please, God, no!"

Beyond his barrier of flashing light, the old man saw a dark figure emerge from the shadows, its shape obscured by his blurred vision. Man or animal, he couldn't tell, but perhaps it was something in-between, a grotesque perversion of nature. It walked like a man almost, but its body was grossly deformed: its powerful legs were bent at inhuman angels, and its arms hung so low that they touched the ground as it moved along.

"It can't be!" The old man rubbed his eyes with his fists, hoping it was all an illusion, but when he looked again, he found the creature standing just outside of his barrier. _A creature of darkness can't enter the light_, he remembered, overcome with relief. But as the lamp blinked on and off, the creature's hairy, bestial feet did cross into the light, one first and then the other, and its claws rapped against the stone, sharp as daggers. Slowly, the old man allowed his eyes to travel up the rest of its body, but as soon as he saw the beast's true nature, he fearfully cast his eyes aside. _What is this foul creature made in the image of both man and beast? Such a monster is not the work of God!_

With a loud pop, the street lamp exploded, leaving the old man in darkness. "Help!" he screamed as he tried to flee. "Help me, please!" Only once did he glance behind, and he saw the monster running after him, bounding on all fours like an animal, and suddenly, just as he blinked, it leapt high into the air, vaulting over him and landing so hard that the stone crumbled beneath its enormous paws.

"Ahh!" The old man stopped, crippled by fear as the beast towered over him, completely eclipsing his trembling form with its own. "What are you?" he stammered, and in response the beast gave a deep growl, releasing a thick cloud of steam that burned the old man's wrinkly face. "God help me," he whimpered, unable to tear his gaze away from those terrifying yellow eyes.

Many heard the old man's screams—they could wake even the deepest sleeper—but nobody went out to help him. Volterra was the safest city in Italy, after all, and who really cared about some poor, crazy old man?

. . .

In the night, a lone wolf howled, but Dahlia paid no attention to it as she walked down the street, eager to return home and forget this night altogether. _I should have never gone in there_, she thought. _What if they come after me now because of what I saw? What did I see? – Nothing, I saw nothing! _Zipping her sweater all the way up to her chin, she increased her pace to a brisk walk and proceeded deeper into the city.

The historic city center was bustling with tourists and locals alike, with many swarming around the numerous bars and restaurants that catered to the young, beautiful, and affluent. Even though Dahlia didn't belong, she enjoyed looking in on this strange and exciting world that existed alongside her own and seeing the men and women dressed up and smelling so nice. It was kind of like window shopping: she knew she would never be like them, but she still liked to look and dream; nobody could stop her from dreaming.

But they could shut her out.

For a second, just a second, Dahlia lost track of where she was going, and she collided into a man her age, bumping his shoulder with hers. "I'm sorry," she said earnestly, wearing an apologetic smile, but once she saw the hatred in the man's eyes, that smile faded. "I'm sorry."

The man's hand went to his jacket pocket, his face awash with suspicion.

"Oh, no," Dahlia tried to say, but the man muttered something in a language she couldn't understand and walked away. "I wasn't trying to ... I wasn't trying to steal from you."

All around her, she saw looks of disgust, and it made her feel horrible, like a crow among doves. No matter how many times she washed her face or combed her hair, they would never accept her. But then she thought back to what that man had said, what he had promised. _I could have anything I want_, she considered._ I could be just like them ... _Of course it was tempting! She hadn't stopped thinking about his offer since she'd left the city hall, but she was afraid, of what she had seen and what she hadn't seen. She knew people like him, and she knew it was best not to get involved. She wasn't about to get sucked into that life, not again.

It had started to rain by the time Dahlia finally made it back to her neighborhood. Every day, she saw new people, good and bad, the scum of the streets. Runaways, thieves, prostitutes, they all flocked there, and so it became known as the "Gutter." Years ago, a great fire claimed most of the neighborhood, so it became lost, forgotten, detached from the rest of the city. Now, it was a sanctuary for the city's undesirables, but on very dark nights even Volterra's elite could be found there, for a man could have anything in the Gutter as long as he was willing to pay for it.

Through the mud and the rain, she trudged between the decrepit buildings, and as she passed by the dusty, shattered windows, she snuck a peek into the world that was now her own. In one house, she saw dozens of people huddled together in one room, rolling and wiggling as they tried to sleep in the cold night. In another, she saw a group of scantily dressed women using their hands and mouths to pleasure a local businessman while his colleague sat in the corner with a dirty, used syringe sticking out of the crook of his arm. When the businessmen finished and refused to pay the pimp's set price, deeming both his products inferior, the pimp pulled out a handgun and fired two shots. Dahlia covered her ears when she heard the bangs, and she hid in the shadows while two men dragged the bodies back into the house. One of the dead men lost his wallet, and Dahlia considered picking it up, but the risk was too great, so she hurried on.

Dahlia's house, which she shared with five other people, sat on the very edge of Volterra's red-light district. Occasionally, men mistook her for one of the workers. "You're not much to look at," they would always say, "but you'll do." The men were much older than her, and they took her from behind because they couldn't stand to look at her haunting, expressionless face, but they paid well enough. Other men liked to do stranger things ... painful things, and Dahlia hated them the most, but they paid more than anyone else, and Dahlia needed the money.

"Where have you been?" Sophie asked as soon as Dahlia entered the house. The curvy blonde was sitting at the table and counting the bills she'd pulled from her bra. When she finished, she growled and threw all the bills onto the table. "One hundred and twenty euros? That's all my time is worth? Cheap bastards."

"Have you seen Émile?" Dahlia asked.

"I haven't seen him in months," Sophie answered as she stood up and casually strolled toward the open window, her robe left open to expose her ample breasts. "I told you, you need to stop depending on that guy, Dolly. No man is going to take care of you. You have to take care of yourself." A man passed by the window, catching the blonde's attention instantly. "Feeling lonely, sweetie?" she called to him, hanging over the windowsill. "Come here, I'll take care of you." She reached out to touch his arm, but he pushed her away and spat, "Whore!"

_Where is Émile? _Dahlia wondered, nervously wringing her fingers while Sophie shouted obscenities at the man who'd rejected her. _I need him here. _A cockroach started to crawl up her leg, so she shook it off and then stomped it into the floor.

Enraged, Sophie was about to climb out the window and chase after the rude man, but then she heard the sirens and saw the bright, flashing lights. "Shit!" she cursed, ducking back inside. "It's the police!" She snatched her money off the table and shoved it back into her bra. "We need to go. We need to go right now!"

Outside, Dahlia saw a wave of people fleeing like ants escaping their collapsing ant hill. In a police raid, it was every man for himself, and Dahlia quickly found herself all alone in a sea of people being pushed and shoved like she was caught in violent storm. When people fell, and many did, they were viciously trampled into the dirt. Some even tripped people on purpose—that's what happened to Dahlia. When the threat of capture became too great, one man elbowed her in the face and threw her to the ground. On her stomach she lay as people passed over her, kicking wet mud into her mouth and eyes. Three times she tried to get up, and three times she was knocked back down. Warm blood started dripping from her nose and trickling into her mouth, so she spit it into the mud. Upon rising for the fourth time, she felt a firm hand grip her arm and lift her up, and then she felt the cold metal ensnare her wrists.

* * *

**Thanks for reading, everyone! On my profile page, there's a link to an album that contains character images, so if you're interested, check it out! It'll be updated as the story progresses and more characters are introduced. **

** Please review!**


	4. A Binding Contract

Chapter 4: A Binding Contract

Dahlia slumped forward in the creaky metal chair, shivering when her chin touched the cold, aluminum table for the first time. As the minutes slowly ticked by, she sat perfectly still, silently watching the bright, flickering florescent lights bounce off the table's shiny surface. _It's like the sun almost,_ she thought. _I feel like I'm trapped in the sun. Everything is bright, white, and reflective. I can feel my skin burning already. What a terrible room. _

When she heard the door open, Dahlia didn't respond in the slightest, not even when she heard the chair across from her screech against the floor. The noise was so loud that it gave her a headache.

"Good morning," said a man. Dahlia could smell the tobacco smoke on his breath as soon as he opened his mouth; it was a sharp, musty odor that lingered around like a fog. "I'm Inspector Moretti. What's your name?"

Dahlia didn't move, and she didn't speak.

"I'm sure these past few hours have been very overwhelming for you," he went on despite her, having only a mop of greasy brown hair to talk to. "Have you been given something to eat yet?"

Still no response.

The inspector shifted uncomfortably in the silence. "Sit up, please."

Slowly, Dahlia sat up in her chair, but her shoulders remained hunched forward as if an invisible string was pulling them toward the table. The inspector resisted the urge to push her shoulders back himself; instead, he just sat a little straighter. "This would be a lot easier if you would just cooperate," he said. "I want to make this as painless as possible for you. So if you would please just answer my questions."

"A light is buzzing," Dahlia abruptly stated as she stared up at the ceiling.

The inspector was taken aback by her sudden response. "It does that sometimes ... something must be loose up there. Pay no mind to it."

"It's bothering me. Fix it."

"I'm afraid I can't do that," he answered, making Dahlia frown with frustration. "Now, let's get back to the question. What is your name?"

"The sound reminds me of flies. I hate flies. They spoil everything."

"Yes, flies are pests. Please, answer the question." He waited for her response, and waited and waited, impatiently drumming his fingers against the table. "You have no name, no identification, so you might as well not even exist. Now, I want to help you, but first you have to help me. Understand?"

"I'll tell you the same thing I told the two other men: I don't need your help. I'm fine. Can I go now?"

The inspector pinched the bridge of his nose with his index and middle fingers. "No, you can't."

"Then can you fix the light?"

"No!" he shouted, losing his temper for just a moment. Catching himself, he took a deep breath and calmly said, "No, I can't, not until you answer my questions."

Dahlia sunk into her seat and folded her arms over her chest. "Then I guess we're done."

Biting back his anger, the inspector reluctantly stood to leave. "I guess so. You're not helping yourself, you know. If you were smart, you'd just tell us what we want to know."

_Well, I've never been very smart_, Dahlia thought, but she refused to speak. They could keep her there as long as they wanted, even send her to prison for the rest of her life. It didn't matter. She was never going to talk, ... but she did want to silence that buzzing light. _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. _That was all she heard, and she started to squirm anxiously and itch at her skin. _Buzz. Buzz. Buzz ... Buzz. Buzz. Buzz. _Grunting, Dahlia slammed her head against the table and closed her eyes. _I can deal with it_, she thought. _I can ignore it. _

Suddenly, there was a loud crash in the interrogation room, followed by another shortly after. When Inspector Moretti went to investigate, he walked into complete darkness. To his astonishment, all the ceiling light fixtures had been smashed, leaving the floor covered in glass and dust and the air polluted with a metallic burnt smell. Dahlia was sitting in the shadows, still as a corpse. "A light was buzzing," she said. "I couldn't figure out which one it was."

The inspector's chair was lying on its side, its backrest still hot and burned black on one end.

. . .

_I like this room better_, Dahlia thought as she stared out through the grey steel bars of her holding cell. Outside, a guard casually stood watch, but he seemed more interested in the television than the detainees. The football game was on, after all, and he had put a lot of money on this particular game.

"These beds are pretty comfortable," Dahlia said to the guard as she lay down. "Much better than mine. What are they made of?"

"You're not supposed to be talking."

"But I am talking, and I'm asking about these beds. I want to get one for myself."

"Like you could afford one."

"Hm. You're probably right. I guess I could just stay here then. I have everything I need here: a bed ... a toilet. What more could a girl want? You know, some food would be nice, actually. Do you have anything on you? I'm starving." _Émile wouldn't let me eat that sandwich_, she went on thinking when the guard denied her an answer. _I wanted that sandwich so bad! He said he would make everything okay again, but nothing is okay. And now he's gone again, and I'm all alone. _A tear slipped down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away.

"It breaks my heart to see such a young girl behind bars," said a man in a deep, powerful voice. Dahlia was most surprised to the see Michele Distefano, the mayor of Volterra, standing outside her cell. He looked just like the picture on his many campaign flyers, much more handsome, though—and older. "What would your parents think?"

"I don't have parents. And if I did, they probably wouldn't care."

"If you were my daughter, I would care. I would care very much. What's your name, child?"

"... Dahlia." She didn't understand why she had told him her name after denying it to so many others. There was just something about his face.

"Well, Dahlia, just for today, let's pretend you are my daughter. How would you like to get out of here?"

Dahlia sat up. "What?"

Michele nodded toward the guard, who then unlocked and opened her cell. "There." He stepped through. "Much better, don't you think? Now, let's go get some lunch, hmm? I'm starving."

Before she knew what was happening, Dahlia found herself sitting across from the mayor in the secluded corner of a very expensive restaurant. She sat in her seat awkwardly, unsure of how to even sit in such a fancy place; and when the waiter asked for her order, she just stared at him with a bewildered expression, like he was speaking a language that she couldn't understand.

"They don't have many fine restaurants in the Gutter, do they?" Michele asked as he drank from his wine glass.

Dahlia placed her elbows on the table only to lower them again a second later. "No," she answered, finally resting her hands on her lap, "they don't." She had tried to sit up tall, but her weak, bony frame was unable to support her, so she had no choice but to let her shoulders fall into their natural slouched position. "Why so much silverware?" she asked once her food arrived. "What am I supposed to do with all these?" Without thinking, she pushed away all but one fork, and the fine silverware clinked and clanged when it hit the floor.

Michele paused in mid-drink and watched as the girl devoured her pasta with the finesse of a toddler, chomping down mouthful after mouthful without stopping, not even for a breath. Her face was covered with so much sauce that she looked like a hungry lion after feasting on a zebra. With a small, sympathetic smile, Michele said, "You have a napkin, you know."

"Hmm?" Dahlia looked up at him with the innocent, glittering eyes of a child, and for a moment he thought of his own daughter when she'd dined at her first restaurant so many years ago. He smiled at the memory, but then he remembered that this lunch was about much more than a kind, fatherly gesture.

"How did you come to live in the Gutter, Dahlia?" Michele asked. "Clearly, you don't belong there, as no innocent child ever does. What happened? Where did you come from?"

Dahlia dropped her fork onto her empty plate and recoiled from the table, sinking back into herself. Her arms crossed in front of her chest, and she was silent again.

"I trust you know who I am," Michele went on, "so I don't need to explain the extent of my power. But I will say this: if you don't answer my questions, I can have you on the first plane back to wherever it is you came from."

"I didn't come from anywhere," she murmured.

"That's fine. I honestly don't care where you came from. My sole interest lies in your visit to the city hall last night. What were you doing in there?"

"Touring."

"I see. And during that tour did you meet a man? A man named Aro, by any chance?"

"No," Dahlia answered quickly, too quickly. "I didn't see anyone."

"What did he say to you?"

"He ... offered me a job, that's all. But I wasn't going to take it or anything. I don't want anything to do with that kinda business. My hands are clean now, I swear."

Satisfied, Michele reached for his wine glass. "I want you to accept that job, Dahlia. And everything you hear, everything you see, I want you to report to me. Understand?"

"Why?"

"Aro is a very secretive man." He brought the glass to his lips and drank from it. "And I don't like secrets."

. . .

_How I despise hospitals_, Christopher thought as he strode down the sterile white corridor. No more than three steps into the building, he had pulled out his hand sanitizer and squirted a drop of it onto the palm of his hand, but with every room he passed, he found that he needed more. _This place is a cesspool of germs and disease_, he thought, furiously rubbing his hands together until they were sore. _I'm going to get sick. I know I'm going to get sick – Ah! Room 213! _Putting on his most charismatic smile, Christopher smoothed out his jacket and then entered the room. As soon as he walked in, the old man sat up with a fright and started shouting at him.

"W-What are you doing here?" he stammered, spitting all over himself as he pulled his blanket all the way up to his chin. "Get out of my room! Get out! Get out!"

"Signore, I've not come to hurt you," Christopher calmly replied, and then he grabbed a chair and dragged it to the old man's bedside. "I've only come to hear your story."

"What story? You mean about that man who attacked me on the street? I don't care how rich he is, I'm pressing charges! He can't treat people like that and get away with it—he just can't!"

"That does sound like an interesting story, but that's not the one I'm referring to. I want to know about what happened after that, when you were attacked by ... something else."

The old man's eyes filled with fear and suspicion. "I told the last reporter everything I remember, and he didn't believe me. He called me crazy—everybody thinks I'm crazy!"

"Is it true you had been drinking that night?" Christopher asked, taking out his notepad and pen.

"Well, yes, but I drink every night. It doesn't affect me like it used to when I was young. It takes more for me to feel ... nothing at all. But I know what I saw. I'm not crazy."

Christopher flashed a reassuring smile. "No need to worry. I'm not some journalist who only believes his version of the truth. I would very much like to hear yours, just as you remember it. So, if you would be so kind as to start from the beginning." From his pocket, he pulled out a small digital voice recorder. "May I record you? I think people will believe this story more if they hear it directly from you."

"Go ahead."

He pushed RECORD and spoke into the voice recorder. "My name is Christopher Redgrave, and I'm here with Signor Mancini, who was admitted to the hospital last night after an attack in Volterra, Italy. This is his story." He gestured toward the old man. "Tell me all that you remember of that night."

The old man cleared his throat. "I was walking home. It was late—or early, I suppose. Around midnight, I think. Maybe later. I was walking down the street, and I had a bad feeling, like something was watching me from the darkness. I've always hated the dark; it hides too much from you. I was walking, and the lights started to go out one after another. All the lights. Exploding like _Pop! Pop! Pop!_ I ran and I screamed for help, but nobody helped. Nobody helps anybody anymore. I ran for the light. I thought it would keep me safe. And then I saw it—a hideous beast, twisted and grotesque, covered in hair. It looked like nothing I had ever seen before—not quite a man, but not an animal either. And its claws were so sharp, and its teeth ... I ran as fast as I could, but it was too fast. It jumped. God, could it jump high! And all of a sudden it was right in front of me, snarling at me with a full mouth of teeth. When it attacked, I felt like I'd been hit by a truck. It tore and ripped through my flesh like it was made of paper. I don't remember the pain much. I just remember those eyes. Yellow, almost like ..."

"Like a wolf's eyes?" Christopher guessed.

"Maybe. It wasn't one of God's creatures, that much I know. It was one of Satan's beasts."

Christopher stopped the recording. "May I see the wound? I need a few pictures for the story."

"Of course." Slowly, the old man pushed down the blanket that covered him, revealing a strange bite mark on his shoulder that was about the size of Christopher's hand. Beside it were a few claw marks that looked more like cat scratches than anything else. The affected area was red and slightly inflamed, but it was not as severe as he'd expected. In fact, some of the wounds looked like they were already starting to scab over.

"That's strange," Christopher said. "I thought the wounds would be deeper."

"They were deeper," replied the old man.

"I see." Christopher took out his camera and snapped a few shots. "Thank you for your time." He moved toward the door but was soon stopped by the old man's voice.

"Do you believe me?" he asked. "Was it a monster that attacked me?"

Christopher glanced over his shoulder and smiled. "There's no such thing as monsters. Good day."

_Five attacks in one night_, Christopher thought as he walked out of the hospital and started down the street. _But no deaths. What does it mean?_

. . .

It was late in the afternoon by the time Dahlia finally mustered up the courage to enter the city hall. Honestly, she wanted to turn around and run away, but the mayor's threatening words were all she could think about. More than anything, she didn't want to be sent away.

She went to the elevator because she didn't know where else to go, and when the doors opened, she saw a man standing inside. He was tall and thin but strongly built, with chin-length black hair that shimmered in the light. His eyes shimmered too. Red, like blood, a color Dahlia found most peculiar. She had seen this man before, just for a brief moment when the beautiful, violet-eyed woman was taking her to meet Aro. His name would be one that she would always remember, but yearn to forget. Demetri.

"I need to speak with Aro," Dahlia said to the man. "It's about a job offer."

Demetri knew all this already. He had heard her enter the building—and smelled her long before that. "Step inside." He moved aside and allowed her to step into the elevator next to him, but he said nothing else to her once the doors closed.

Dahlia stood in the corner opposite Demetri, watching the tiny yellow light move from one side of the panel to the other, counting down the floors. With every quiet ding, the lump in her throat dropped lower and lower. She bit down on her lip and glanced over at the man beside her, who was looking straight ahead, his gaze unwavering even as she stared openly at him. _His posture is so perfect_, she noted, observing him in awe. _He stands like a nobleman from another time. _

When his eyes finally caught hers, she blushed and looked away. Demetri took this moment to look her over, and he was not as impressed as she. From this close, he could see the dirt suffocating the pores on her face, and see the white, flaky skin on her dry, cracked lips. When she smiled, it was a wonder they didn't crack in two. The longer he stared, the more anxious she seemed to get. She began combing her fingers through her hair, as if trying to make herself more presentable to him. Like it mattered.

Despite himself, Demetri politely allowed Dahlia to exit first when they reached their destination. The young woman took this as a kind, chivalrous gesture, but when she tried to thank him, he hurried past her, granting her not even the briefest glance. _He has the face of a gentlemen_, Dahlia thought as she watched him walk away,_ but his eyes are cold. _

"So you've returned," Heidi said, stepping out from around the corner with a black binder in her arms. "Does that mean you're considering the position?"

"Yes," Dahlia replied. "I've decided to accept."

Heidi's red lips curled into a smile. "Excellent. I just have some documents for you to sign, and then we can make this official." From the binder, she pulled out a small stack of papers and placed them on the desk. She was just about to hand Dahlia a pen when she suddenly pulled away. "Wait, do you even know how to read?" _  
_

Dahlia's eyes narrowed. "I can read," she shot back.

"Of course. Forgive me." She placed the pen in the girl's hand, noting the stubby, chewed fingernails. "It's a standard employment contract. Look it over carefully. By signing, you agree to abide by the terms and conditions written above. You will work weekdays from nine to five, but you must always be available to us in case we should ever need you. While you work, you are to remain at your desk unless summoned elsewhere. There will be no wandering around the estate. Lastly, and this is the most important rule, under no circumstance are you to disclose anything you see or hear while working for us. As far as the outside world is considered, we don't even exist. Failure to abide by any one of these rules will result in _immediate termination_. Do you understand?"

Dahlia looked over the contract carefully; pages and pages of tiny black text, with words she barely understood. "It seems like an awful lot for a simple office position. I'm just the secretary, aren't I?"

"You'll be whatever we need you to be. In time, you will understand why we must take such great precautions with our staff. Please, sign."

Dahlia placed the tip of her pen on the signature line. "I feel like I'm signing my soul to the Devil," she joked.

Heidi chuckled lightly. "Yes, I suppose so." She watched closely as the girl carefully wrote out the letters of her name, and when the girl was finished, Heidi smiled. "Perfect. It's official now." _Such a wasteful process_, she thought as she took the papers and slid them back into her binder. _I don't understand how humans can feel such comfort from a piece of paper. You'd think it was a shield._ "Now, come with me please." She stepped toward the elevator, her black heels rapping against the stone floor.

"Where are we going?" Dahlia asked.

Heidi spun around. "Didn't you read the contract? While working for us, you must adhere to a certain dress code. We do have a reputation to maintain." _And I won't have you walking around in such filth. It's a poor reflection of me. _"This way, please."

The two women took the elevator up to the main floor, and when they got out, they were blinded by a camera's flashing light. The photographer, a young man of twenty-eight, took another photo before finally putting down his camera.

"Can I help you?" Heidi said to the man, trying to hide her anger behind a pleasant smile.

The man was Christopher Redgrave, but he didn't introduce himself as such; and when he spoke, he spoke only in English despite being fluent in Italian. "I'm Scott Redding." He held out his hand to shake, but the stunning woman denied him. "I'm here for the tour, which I've heard so much about. It's like no other, they say. This building is one of the most historical buildings in the region, perfectly preserved. Are those paintings in the foyer authentic? They look legit, but you never know, right? I had some guy in Florence trying to sell me the actual _Mona Lisa_, but I'm no fool. The piece looked like a crayon drawing my four-year-old could do."

Growing tired of his rambling, Heidi interrupted. "I'm afraid there are no tours scheduled for today. You'll have to come back another time."

Christopher frowned. "Really? Man, I really wanted to see this place, too. Where does that elevator go, by the way? A secret room of gold and riches? They never did find Dracula's treasure, you know."

"Nothing so interesting as that," Heidi replied. "There is a tour tomorrow if you are still interested, but the building is about to close for the day. Please show yourself out." Turning on her heel, Heidi started toward the door with Dahlia behind her.

_No way she's human_, Christopher thought as he whipped out his notepad and started jotting down notes. _So this is the place where tourists go missing. Volterra is home to a bloodthirsty coven of vampires, and they use the mayor as a puppet. _He stared suspiciously at the mysterious elevator, wondering what lay below. _Yep, I'd believe it. _

Slipping his notepad into his coat pocket, Christopher walked out of the building and disappeared into the crowd of tourists. _Werewolves are attacking poor drunks and vampires are secretly running the city. Even I can't make this shit up._

* * *

**Thanks for reading! Although Dahlia is a central character, this story isn't just gonna be about her. The Volturi are going to take on a more prominent role from now on.**

**Please review!**


	5. Taste of Luxury

Chapter 5: Taste of Luxury

"This is wrong."

Aro stepped back a few paces and stared closely at the new painting on his wall, and his discontent grew with every unbearable second that passed. "Something isn't right," he said. "Renata, what do you think?"

The brunette's vigilant eyes were fixed to the door, as if an intruder was about to burst in at any moment. Her master's sudden call shattered her composure immediately, and she started to stammer and twitch like someone aroused from a deep sleep. "Master?"

"The painting, how does it make you feel?"

"Feel?" She had been in the room with this painting for nearly an hour, yet she hadn't looked at it once, not until commanded. "I feel ..." Her eyes became drawn to the men, to their faces, twisted in agony as they tried to climb out from the dark, bottomless pit of their own damnation and touch the light; but all this was impossible, for their heavy chains bore too great a burden. "I feel ... condemned. Please, may I look away now?"

"Of course!" Aro exclaimed, showing little regard for the young woman's discomfort. "It's dark, depressing, and so clichéd. I can't have that. Hmm, let me see the other two. Hold them up nice and high. Yes, just like that." He studied both pieces carefully. "I'm not sure I understand the concept of abstract art, but I do appreciate it. I see nothing, yet I feel so much. Tell me, who is the artist?"

Renata searched around for a signature. "Kandinsky, I believe."

"Hmm." Aro pressed his hands together and brought them to his lips. "I just can't decide on my own. I need another opinion. Bring in Marcus and Caius, please."

Renata's eyes widened. "You want me to leave you? But if something should happen while I'm away ..."

"What could possibly happen? I'm perfectly safe in my chambers, I assure you." He waved her off with a subtle flick of his wrist. "Go on now. Be quick about it."

_I don't like this at all_, Renata thought, but she did as her master bid. Upon exiting his chambers, she had planned to lock the door behind her, but the key had somehow vanished from its home in her pocket. Panicking, she searched through every pocket on her being but found nothing. "Master, someone has taken the key!" she cried from outside. "I'm not comfortable leaving you so vulnerable. What if this is all part of some treacherous plot?"

"Everything is fine, Renata," Aro promised as he returned to his desk. "There is no plot."

"But I must find the key."

"Yes, I wonder what could have happened to it ..." His eyes drifted over to the top drawer of his desk. "I'll be sure to search for it while you're away."

"But—"

"The sooner you leave, the sooner you can come back. Please, Renata, you're the only one I trust."

Renata could almost feel herself blushing. "Yes, Master." A bright smile spread across her pale face as she began her strut down the hall, shuffling her black loafers across the floor. She greatly preferred the soft dragging sound over the loud snap of a heel striking the stone like a whip. Unlike some of her associates, who would remain nameless, she refused to dress like a harlot, walking around in tight, skimpy dresses and putting her breasts on full display. Unforgivable. _There's such depravity here, such filth. I cannot let it affect Master Aro. I must protect him. I'm the only one who can protect him from the wickedness of this place ... and the people who would do him harm. _

The door to Marcus's chambers was wide open, as it usually was. Most days, the quiet, taciturn gentleman lacked the will to close it, so Renata took it upon herself to close it once she entered. "Master Aro requires your ... Why are you lying on the floor when you have a perfectly nice leather sofa?"

Marcus was lying right in the middle the room, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Leather, stone, it all feels the same to me: uncaring, unyielding, and unforgiving. I fear I can no longer tell silk from sandpaper ... Is there something you want?"

"Master Aro seeks your ... Never mind." _This man is of no use to anybody. "_Sorry to have bothered you. I'll show myself out."

"It was no bother."

_His indifference could soon become a liability, _Renata worried as she closed the door behind her and moved on to the next leader's chambers. To this room, she walked very tentatively, and when she reached the door, she was careful to knock at least three times.

"Come in," Caius said, his irritation so clear that it nearly turned Renata away entirely, but she had a job to do, and her master was counting on her. "Are you coming, or do I have to drag you in myself? I don't have all day, you know."

Composing herself, Renata entered his chambers. "Master Aro requires your counsel."

"My counsel? That is a very clever way of phrasing it. He certainly didn't need my counsel when he decided to enter into a partnership with the mayor, or when he decided to build that ghastly hotel, or when he purchased this unnecessary piece of furniture for everyone." He sat uncomfortably at his new desk, which lacked the fine embellishments of Aro's desk: no gilded pens, no ancient texts from the early days, no sentimental trinkets of any kind—just a desk and a chair with a wobbly leg. "Tell me, why does he so desperately need my counsel now?"

Renata was reluctant to respond when she knew the answer would upset him further. "Well, there are two paintings he's considering."

If he hadn't been in Renata's company, he would have taken his desk, smashed it against the wall, and gleefully watched it splinter into a million pieces. Since she was present, however, he could only sulk in his frustration. "For the last time, I don't care about his paintings or his sculptures. While he is decorating his chambers and arranging meetings like some common businessman, I am working to solve real problems that could very much lead to the destruction of our race. When he finally feels like contributing, he can seek me out. Until then, leave me in peace."

_Cut out your forked tongue, you serpent! _Renata spitefully thought. _How dare you mock Master Aro? While you're skulking around in the shadows, he is making the connections necessary to ensure the longevity of our race. He will single-handedly bring us into the new age, but you would prefer to remain an ancient relic of the past, so you can't possibly see his glorious vision! _Her thoughts were so powerful that she was starting to shake, but they would remain just that—thoughts.

"You're still standing there? I've given you my answer."

"Yes." Renata slowly began her retreat. "Forgive me."

_They're all deceivers,_ she thought as she returned to Aro's chambers,_ and he's the biggest one of them all! I can't let him destroy all that we've worked for—I won't! Master Aro must be warned of this. I must tell him at once! _Upon turning the corner, she came upon two children dressed all in black, blending in like two shadows on the wall. If she hadn't been so focused, she might not have noticed them at all. "Alec, Jane, what are you doing wandering about?"

"We're not wandering," Jane answered quietly, staring out from beneath her blunt brown bangs. "We know exactly where we're going."

"And where is that?" Renata asked.

"Wherever we choose."

"No," Renata said firmly. "You cannot just go wherever you wish. You know this."

"And if we refuse, will you stop us?" Jane challenged. "Can you stop us?"

Renata felt something then—an uncomfortable tingle in her fingers, like she was holding her hand directly over a burning candle. It was not painful, not yet, but it could quickly become so if the little girl wished it. As Renata squirmed, Jane was beaming with childish delight. "Is something wrong?" she asked. "You look displeased."

Renata's body started to relax, but the memory of the pain would remain on her skin, serving as a subtle warning. "I'm fine," Renata answered. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak with Master Aro."

"Of course." Jane stepped aside and allowed her to pass. "I quite enjoyed this talk, Renata. We should have more of them. Later, perhaps."

"Yes, perhaps." Renata glanced over her shoulder and watched the two children disappear around the corner. _Demons, they are, with the innocent faces of children. Master Aro should have let them burn. _

After failing to meet his request, Renata had no choice but to return to her master empty-handed, and this made her very uneasy. When she arrived at his chambers to deliver the unfortunate news, however, she was completely brushed aside. "I've made the decision on my own," Aro told her. "Although grim and clichéd, I find the subject matter of this painting rather appealing and thought-provoking, as if posing the question: 'Are we all damned?'"

"It was a wise decision, Master," Renata agreed, "but the other leaders should have come at your call. It was very bold of them to refuse you, Master, too bold for my liking. Caius worries me the most. He speaks ill of you when your back is turned, and he does not believe in your cause. If we don't take action soon, everything you have worked so hard for could be destroyed."

Aro listened but granted her words no merit. "There is no need to worry, Renata. Caius will not betray me."

"Your self-assurance is admirable, but I fear it has blinded you. There are traitors among us, Master, and they will strike when you are most vulnerable." Renata's hand found its way to Aro's shoulder, where it lay until he swatted it away.

"Are you questioning my judgment, Renata?"

"No, not at all. I just—"

"I think you need a break, my dear. You have been working too hard. Take a few days for yourself."

His word pierced like a knife in her chest. "But I have already taken the days, and they all but destroyed me. Master, my place is at your side, protecting you."

"And I appreciate your loyalty more than I can say." He spoke like a boss attempting to fire his most trusted employee, carefully dancing around the truth so as to spare her feelings. "But I don't need you right now."

She swallowed hard. "You don't need me?"

Aro smiled pleasantly and reached for one of his books. "That will be all, Renata. Show yourself out."

With a deep bow, she obediently replied, "Yes, Master," and exited the room.

. . .

At six o'clock, Heidi was still sitting in the lobby of Volterra's luxury day spa, which catered specifically to the elite class, but the occasional infestation of tourists and coupon-holders did occur, an event seldom enjoyed by the regulars. Most would smile and behave in a gracious yet condescending manner. "You must feel really honored," the women would often say to the newcomers, as if they were the greeters at Heaven's golden gates. Small wonder why those lucky few never returned for a second visit, but the regulars certainly didn't miss their company.

For a day spa, a place of relaxation, the lobby itself wasn't very cozy; in fact, it was rather cold and sterile, with a modern, monochromatic design. Wearing a deep red dress, Heidi stuck out like a spot of blood on a newspaper. She liked to think that was the reason why all the customers were staring at her, but she knew better. Hard to say which type she hated worse, though: the men who leered out of lust or the women who glared out of envy. Honestly, she detested them both equally.

"She's resisting," said one of the estheticians to Heidi as she entered the hobby in a fit, probably because she had hot wax on her clothes and in her hair.

Heidi rolled her eyes. "So tame her. Hold her down, tie her up, sedate her. Do whatever you have to do to get the job done."

The woman scowled. "None of the other girls were this difficult."

Heidi reached for a magazine and started flipping through the pages. "Why are you still talking? You have work to do, don't you? If you can't do the job, I'll find someone who can. You're all easily replaced."

Without another word, the woman went back to work.

_Honestly, it's so hard to find quality employees these days_, Heidi went on thinking. _Gone are the days when servants obeyed without question. Now, all I get is this._ With a quick snap of her wrist, she used the magazine to slap away a man's groping hand from her knee. _Disrespect!  
_

The girl emerged an hour later, shivering and whimpering like a dog who'd just been stripped of all its fur. From the frightened look in her eyes, one would think she'd been cruelly violated in that room, but sometimes such a painful and forceful process was necessary to achieve beauty. Was it successful this time? Not entirely. On the surface, she looked presentable enough, like a old penny all shined up, but she was still just a penny.

"Not the best work I've seen," Heidi commented, throwing stern look of disapproval toward the esthetician, "but an improvement, no less." She rose from her seat and smiled. "Let's press on."

Inside the car, Dahlia sank into her seat like she had no bones in her body, but she ignored any glares from Heidi that might persuade her to rise. For the duration of the ride, the girl was fixated on the smoothness of her bare skin. "I didn't even know skin could feel like this," she said in fascination as she ran her hands down the length of her arms, and she did the same to her legs.

"Well, most people don't want to look like monkeys," Heidi curtly replied.

"But we come from monkeys," Dahlia said, grinning like a child. "Perhaps that's how we should look." She waited for a reply, positive or negative, but it never came. Falling silent, Dahlia resorted to an old nervous habit and placed her fingers into her mouth. As soon as her tongue touched the tips of her manicured fingernails, she started gagging. "What's that awful taste?"

"A special solution to deter you from that nasty habit," Heidi answered. "I won't have you destroying all the work I've done."

Dahlia opened the window and spat the bitter taste out of her mouth. "Well, you could've warned me."

"This way is more effective."

The rest of their ride was silent, except for the occasional spitting sound that arose when Dahlia's fingers found their way into her mouth. With every cough that came from the poor girl, Heidi smiled a little brighter. _Such a stupid little thing, but even she can be tamed. _

Dahlia still had her fingers in her mouth when saw the castle gates for the first time, and they were so magnificent that she nearly forgot about the unpleasant taste. _I've gone back in time_, she thought as the car approached the gatehouse, a massive structure comprised entirely of brown stone, complete with an iron portcullis that rose to grant them entry. It was so authentic that Dahlia's mind could easily travel back to the Middle Ages, to a time when the air was thick with the stench of death, and the rotting corpses of plague victims were stacked on top of each other and burned in the courtyard. Dahlia could see the mounds blazing bright like torches. Heidi could see them too, but her vision was no dream—it was a memory.

When the car stopped, Heidi handed Dahlia a pair of high heels and told her to put them on before exiting the car, but Dahlia refused them, saying, "I can't walk in those."

"Put them on, or I'll have them surgically attached to your feet."

"Can you really do that?"

"Do you want to find out?"

Frowning, Dahlia reluctantly took the shoes and slipped them on, but after no more than ten steps out, she had them back in her hands and was walking barefoot across the courtyard. When Heidi caught her, and she caught her right away, she nearly ripped the shoes out of her hands and beat her over the head with them, but she restrained herself, allowing the girl this brief moment of comfort.

"Welcome," Heidi said to the girl as they ascended the stairs and entered the main keep, "to Palazzo dei Volturi."

On the outside, it looked like a medieval castle, but inside it was a palace, with smooth marble floors and grand staircases that went higher than Dahlia's eyes could see. Inspired by medieval architecture, the hotel's design was oozing with luxury, a characteristic reflected in every detail, even the color palette, which consisted largely of deep reds and golds. Dahlia thought she would have to pay a great fine just to stand in the lobby.

"Wait here while I check you in," Heidi said.

"Check me in? You mean, I get to stay here?"

"That's the idea," Heidi replied just before walking toward the front desk.

_I get to stay here? _Dahlia was so happy that she nearly leapt with joy. _A girl like me in a place like this. Stuff like this only happens in dreams! _She had to pinch herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming, and when she realized she wasn't, a huge grin spread across her face. _This is the best decision I've ever made! _

With an overwhelming sense of self-confidence, Dahlia approached the bar, where two young women, dressed for a night in the city, were sipping cocktails and discussing their plans for the evening. Apparently, the two Americans were eagerly awaiting their date, a handsome Italian gentleman who'd agreed to show them the city's nightlife.

Dahlia hopped onto the bar stool next to them and ordered a drink of her own. "This place is really fancy, huh?"

One of the women glanced her way. In a matter of seconds, she analyzed Dahlia's style and posture and came to the conclusion that she was not worth talking to, so she turned away and resumed her conversation with her friend.

Dahlia's face burned red with embarrassment. _I don't get it_, she thought. _I look just like them: my hair is styled, my nails are manicured, and I have no hair—anywhere, but I'm still not good enough for those bitches. We're in the same place, yet I'm still beneath them. _

In a minor fit of rage, Dahlia's hand knocked over her martini glass and it shattered on the floor. "Shit," she cursed as she dropped onto her hands and knees and started cleaning up the mess.

"Nice going," said the young woman as she and her friend walked away; and as they laughed and mocked her, all Dahlia could think about was how great it would feel to cut up their pretty little faces with a shard of glass. Slice. Slash. Slice. Unfortunately, the only person she managed to cut was herself.

She looked at the pair of high heels that lay beside her. _The shoes_, she thought as she stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth and started sucking on it. _I should've worn the shoes. _

"Come here often?" asked a man with a very deep voice, who was so tall that Dahlia had to crank her head back all the way just to see his face. He looked like a model, she thought right away, because of his high cheekbones and sharp jawline, but his face was sickly pale, like he hadn't seen the sun in ages.

"All the time," Dahlia lied after pulling her finger out of her mouth and wiping it on the skirt of her dress. "And you?"

"Whenever I visit."

"Really? Where are you from?"

"Here and there. All over, really."

"Sounds exciting. Must be nice to travel so much."

"Yes, it is." As he spoke, his eyes were glued to Dahlia's injured hand, following it carefully, as if lost in some trance. "You've hurt yourself."

"Just a tiny nick. I've had worse."

"Let me see." He took her hand and pulled her to her feet in one smooth motion. Dahlia was about to thank him, but she soon found herself without words as she stared into his eyes. Red, they were, as red as the blood that was dripping from her finger; but then they started to turn black, like ink soaking into paper. Slowly, he brought her bleeding finger to his lips and dipped the very tip of his tongue into the tiny crimson pool. Just enough for a little taste. No harm done. But for a man like him, a taste was never enough.

"Dahlia!" Heidi pulled the girl away before the man could have a second helping. "I told you to stay put."

The man wiped his mouth and smiled with blood-stained teeth. "Heidi, what a pleasant surprise. It's been ages since we last saw each other. Tell me, are you here for business or pleasure?"

"Business," Heidi answered. "Aro's business."

All the black in the man's eyes was sucked back into his pupils. "Pity. Well, if you change your mind, I'll be here all night." Then he smiled politely at Dahlia. "It was a pleasure," and he took her hand, placed a soft kiss on her knuckles, and then walked away.

"Who was that?" Dahlia asked Heidi.

"Just a guest. Let's go."

The two women took the elevator all the way up to the penthouse suite, an elegant, two-level space fit for a family, with two king-sized bedrooms, two bathrooms with bathtubs big enough to swim in, a gorgeous living and dining area with sleek leather furniture, and a wrap-around balcony with views of the peaceful countryside. "This is like a house in a hotel," Dahlia said, her mouth agape. "I get to live here?"

"For as long as you're employed with us, yes."

Without another word, Dahlia walked to the center of the foyer and dropped onto her back, sprawling out across the marble floor like a child making angels in the snow.

"What are you doing?" Heidi asked. "Get up."

"Please, let me stay here," Dahlia quietly replied, "just for a little while. I don't remember the last time I was this happy." Closing her eyes in bliss, she smiled up at the vaulted ceiling, which contained a mural of angels soaring in a perfect blue sky. "This moment is divine."

_Enjoy it while it lasts,_ Heidi grimly thought, and for a second, she actually felt sorry for the kid, but all that sorrow disappeared when she saw the two dark figures step into the light. In truth, Alec and Jane had been in the suite long before the two women entered, but they chose to hang back in the shadows and watch from a distance.

"What are you two doing here?" Heidi asked, showing great restraint, as anyone should when speaking directly to Jane. "You two shouldn't be here. It's not safe."

"We wanted to see the new secretary," Jane answered with a smile in her eyes. "What do you think, Brother?"

Alec's cold stare was unyielding, and it made Dahlia very uncomfortable. "She's uglier than the others," he finally said, "and dimmer, too. Perhaps she can use this to her advantage, but I doubt it. Honestly, I don't think she'll last more than a month."

"That is a generous assessment," Jane replied. "I don't expect her to last the week."

"Well, maybe I'll surprise you," Dahlia said upon standing. "I'm a lot stronger than you think."

Jane cocked her head to the side, slightly intrigued by this girl's determination. "Really? You know, the other girls said the exact same thing, and, well, we all know what became of them. I hope you prove us wrong, though; really, I do because I'd like to see how much suffering you can endure. I'd like that very much."

"That's enough, Jane," Heidi interrupted, bringing the girl's fiery glare upon her, but before Heidi felt the pain in her flesh, Alec placed his hand on his sister's shoulder and calmed her boiling temper.

"Let's go, Sister. We've seen all there is to see."

"Fine. See you tomorrow, Dahlia, and good luck. You'll need it."

"Thanks," Dahlia replied, accepting the little girl's challenge, and once the children left, she turned to Heidi and asked, "Who the hell were those two, Aro's kids or something?"

"Something like that."

. . .

Back in the city center, tucked away in the corner of Volterra's most expensive restaurant, Demetri was enjoying a quiet dinner with his guests, two beautiful American women, the very same women who'd rejected Dahlia just hours before. They were most eager to experience Volterra's finest cuisine.

"It's so dark," said the blonde. "Can't we sit somewhere a little brighter?"

"I quite enjoy the dark," Demetri replied with a flirtatious smirk. "It's more sensual, don't you think?"

The brunette returned his smirk. "I couldn't agree more."

The blonde nervously picked at the food on her plate. "Aren't you going to eat something?" she asked Demetri.

"I have no need for food," he replied. "This feast before my eyes is more than enough to satisfy me."

The brunette started to giggle. "You, sir, are quite the charmer. Do you use that line on all of your dates?"

"Only the beautiful ones."

"Has it ever failed?" she went on, and by no accident at all her foot brushed against Demetri's leg, rising higher and higher with each stroke. Most men would have succumbed to such an aggressive tactic, but Demetri found it rather desperate and distasteful. Unfortunately, he had no choice but to endure it.

"Not yet," he replied. "So tell me, what are your interests?"

"My interests? Well, I like movies and music. I got into acting recently, and my agent says I have a lot of talent. He says I could make it real big one day."

_He lied_, Demetri thought as he gazed longingly at the expensive tableware, which was supposedly made of pure silver. At times like these, he wished all the legends were true so that he may free himself of his unrefined company. _I asked for cultured women, and they brought me these two? _

"Shall we return to your suite?" Demetri asked despite his displeasure.

Both women eagerly grinned. "Of course!"

After paying the bill, Demetri kindly escorted the women toward the exit, and along the way, they passed the table where Christopher Redgrave was sitting down to a nice dinner with one of Volterra's elite, Signor Amorelli, who owned this fine restaurant as well as several others across Italy. He was a very busy man, so Christopher appreciated the opportunity to discuss business with him, and to dine in such an expensive restaurant free of charge.

"This place is amazing!" Christopher declared before chugging down his entire glass of wine and then pouring himself another. "Honestly, I've never had food this good. My compliments to your chef. Can I meet him?"

"No." Signor Amorelli pushed away his empty plate and sat back in his seat. "Now that you've consumed three plates of food and guzzled your way through most of my wine cellar, why don't you tell me what this meeting is about?"

Christopher set down his wine glass. "I simply wanted to sample the cuisine of Volterra! And who better to show me than a fine man such as yourself? – I think I want dessert. Can I get dessert?" He hailed the waiter. "Waiter! Waiter! Over here!"

"ENOUGH!" Signor Amorelli banged his fists against the table and the entire restaurant went silent. The old man's fat head was as red as the tomatoes that remained on his plate, and his double chins continued to jiggle long after his outburst was over, like the aftershocks of an earthquake. "Tell me why you called me."

"Okay." Christopher took one more sip of his wine and then reached for his messenger bag. "I wanted to wait 'til after dessert, but since you leave me no choice ..." He pulled out a yellow envelope and slid it across the table. "Have a look. I think you'll like what you see." Signor Amorelli opened the envelope and started shuffling through the pictures inside, and as he did that, Christopher went on talking. "I'm currently writing a piece on the Gutter, you know. So many interesting stories there, so many fascinating people ... Not really the kind of place a gentleman such as yourself would visit, though, huh? I mean, with all the prostitutes and the drug dealers, why would you go there, right? But it's funny ... I could have sworn I saw—"

"Say nothing else," Signor Amorelli said as his eyes shifted suspiciously around the room. "Who else knows about this?"

"Nobody, and it will stay that way as long as you cooperate."

Suddenly, the old man's mouth felt very dry, so he took a long swig right from the wine bottle. "You're blackmailing me?"

"That's such an ugly word, but yeah, I guess I am. Guy's gotta pay his bills somehow. Now, do we have a deal?"

"You give me no choice." He slid the photos back into the envelope and sealed it up. "We have a deal."

"Excellent." Christopher went to shake the man's hand and noticed something very peculiar. "Hey, what happened to your arm?" he asked, focusing on the white bandage that was peeking out from underneath the old man's jacket sleeve.

"That? It's nothing. I was attacked by a dog or something. Just a scratch, really."

"When did this happen?"

"Last night sometime. Why do you ask?"

Christopher smiled. "Just curious. Now, how about that dessert?"

. . .

The brunette woman was enjoying a dessert of her own while Demetri was in the other room with her friend. In anticipation for the events to come, she had peeled off her dress and tossed it behind the couch, leaving her in just her undergarments. Lounging on the leather sofa, she feasted on fresh strawberries dipped in chocolate while she waited, and when he finally returned, she was disappointed to see him fully clothed, with a glass of red wine in his hand.

"I think I was too much for your friend," he said as he sat down in the chair opposite her. "I'm afraid I've exhausted her."

The woman smiled lustfully. "Well, I have plenty of energy."

"Do you?"

"Yes." Slowly, seductively, she arose from the couch and approached him. "Yes, I do," and without invitation, she climbed onto his lap, which was so cold that she felt like she was straddling a block of ice. A pleasant shiver rippled over her body. "You're freezing! ... but don't worry, I'll warm you up." Running her fingers down his arm, she pulled the wine glass out of his hand, brought it to her lips, and drank from it.

"Is something wrong?" Demetri asked, gazing up at her sickened face.

"Your wine tastes funny," the woman said; metallic, like she had swallowed a penny.

"That's because it isn't wine," he replied, watching with delight as all the color faded from her flushed cheeks. "It's the blood I drained from your friend's pretty neck, right after I cut her throat."

The young woman gasped for the air to scream, but all that came out was a loud groan as she felt his teeth pierce deep into the tender flesh of her neck. The wine glass slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor, soaking the rug with blood.

* * *

**Alright! You got to meet some Volturi guards in this chapter, like the paranoid Renata, who is convinced that Caius is a traitor. You'll meet more in the chapters to come, of course. Dahlia moved into her new home, which is full of snobs and people who like blood, apparently. Christopher decided to take a break from his supernatural reporting in order to blackmail some rich people, which is always fun. Last but not least, Demetri got to enjoy some American cuisine.**

**In the next chapter, Dahlia will start her first day of work, so keep reading to find out what happens!**

**Thanks for reading, and please review! I'm not gonna hold the story hostage 'til I get a certain number of reviews, but they do provide motivation. **


	6. Til You Forget

Chapter 6: 'Til You Forget

After the last pint was served and all the tourists stumbled back to their hotels, the city of Volterra fell into a deep slumber, leaving the shadows and the light to play in the streets like friendly children in the schoolyard. In this late hour, when all else was still, the Gutter opened its doors for business, calling all the city's rats, the rich and the poor, to its humble gates. The respectable men always hid their faces as they navigated the muddy streets of the red-light district. _I'm nothing like these other guys_, they told themselves. _I'm a decent man. _The women didn't care either way. "I don't judge a man by his character," they would always say, "just by the bulge in his pocket."

In one of the brothels, a young woman hurried to clean up for her next shift. Men always paid more when the woman was clean, she knew, and she needed to make up for work she'd missed. _I should've been more careful_, she thought. _It's not safe to walk the streets at night. _She never saw the animal that attacked her, but it left its mark on her flesh. After her shower, the sopping wet bandage on her shoulder had started to peel, so she pulled it off herself. Much to her horror, the inflamed skin underneath was oozing with a yellow puss that carried a rancid smell.

"I don't understand," she cried. "The wound was nearly healed this afternoon." She tore through an entire roll of toilet paper while trying to dry the wound, but her attempts were in vain; if anything, it seemed to be getting worse; streams of puss and blood were trickling down her back and puddling on the floor. "What's happening?"

Just outside, the brother owner started banging on the door with his fist. "What's going on in there?"

"N-Nothing! I'll be out in a minute!" Quickly, she cleaned up the mess and then dressed herself. "Everything's fine," she murmured, tugging at the neck of her dress until it covered her wound. "I'm fine."

"Well, hurry up!" he shouted. "We have clients waiting downstairs!"

Her trail was spotted red and yellow as she stumbled out the bathroom in her heels, and by the time she reached the staircase, the infection had already seeped through the fabric, staining her dress an unpleasant brown color. _Something's wrong_, she thought as her vision started to blur. Breathing deeply, she wrapped her fingers around the wrought iron railing, an old, wobbly structure that had gone orange with rust after years of neglect. It started to creak when she threw her weight against it, but she couldn't find the strength to lift herself up. Her body felt so heavy all of a sudden, like someone had cut open her stomach and placed stones inside. "What am I going to do?"

_Jump_, she heard in the silence. _Jump now and leave it all behind_, and she felt a pair of hands on her back, gently pushing her forward. She kept her eyes shut, too afraid to see the fall, but soon the fear became too much for her, and she snuck a peek. With her blurred eyesight, she could barely see the brothel owner smiling up at her from below, his broken body lying in a twisted, mangled heap on the floor.

"No!" she screamed as she struggled against the plunge, her red shoes scraping against the iron. "No, please, no!" The hands gave her one last shove, and she toppled over the edge, joining her boss on the stone.

Two men, cloaked in shadow, approached the balcony from which the woman fell. "How tragic," said one to the other. "I hate to see a good whore go to waste."

The second man spoke with a subtle Spanish accent. "Every whore is a good whore to you, Felix."

"True, but still ..." Felix reached into his pocket and pulled out a lighter. "... it makes me kind of sad." With a quick flick, the flame was alive and dancing upon the wick. "Oh well."

. . .

As the dim morning light broke through the pale curtains, a soft yellow glow washed over the master bedroom and splashed every piece of furniture with its warmth. Even the bed, drenched with blood, its sheets twisted and tangled from a desperate struggle, now seemed to glisten with a tranquil radiance. The bedroom was quiet and had gone undisturbed for most of the night because nobody wanted to wake the golden-haired beauty as she slept, her cheek resting softly upon her pillow. The sun's touch almost made her look alive.

In the lounge, Demetri sat sideways in his chair, using the arm as a leg rest while he gently bobbed his head to the classical music playing in the background; and every time his cheek caught the light, even for the briefest moment, his skin would shimmer like millions of fine crystals. If someone walked in, they would think an angel had descended from the heavens, but this man had no interest in paradise.

"Such fine company you turned out to be, my dear," he said to the woman who lay on the couch across from him. "Tell me, did you enjoy your stay?"

The woman said nothing, and he smiled. "Excellent."

Finally, the housekeeper arrived to clean the room, signaling her presence with a knock. "Housekeeping."

"Come in."

Demetri listened as the cleaning cart's wheels rolled across the floor, squeaking ever so slightly, and then he waited for her gasp of horror. It came sooner than he expected, but it wasn't as loud as he'd hoped. The old woman was standing with her head hung as she whispered a prayer for the innocent young woman. Demetri said a little prayer of his own, thanking her god for the delicious meal.

"Do not mock me, demon!" spat the old woman.

"Signora, I meant no offense," Demetri replied upon rising from his chair. "I only wish to give my thanks." He went to her then and took her face in his cold hands, placing a kiss on both her round cheeks. "You are such a lovely woman. You wouldn't happen to have any daughters, would you?"

The woman pulled away and started cursing at him in Italian, but Demetri didn't care. "I hope you brought a lot of bleach in that cart of yours," he said as he walked out of the room "You'll need it."

Outside, he met the hotel manager, who wore a cheap knock-off of a name brand suit because, as he always complained, he wasn't paid enough to afford the real thing. In order to earn the raise he so desperately desired, he would jump and slobber all over each guest and call it good service.

"Good morning!" he greeted Demetri with a bright, cheerful smile, and when he was ignored, he just brushed it off and kept on going. "Did you enjoy your stay with us?" he asked as he struggled to keep up with Demetri's fast pace.

"No," Demetri answered. "No, I didn't. I specifically asked for two beautiful, sophisticated women, one brunette and one blonde, who appreciate the fine arts and can hold my attention for more than a few minutes. What did you give me? A shy dimwit and a would-be actress who can't keep her legs closed."

"Well, you have very specific needs, sir. It's not easy to find women like that in this age."

"That's not my problem. I make the request and you fill it, isn't that how it works?"

"Yes, sir, and we're doing the best we can."

"Well, your best clearly isn't good enough."

Slowing his pace, the manager started to mutter under his breath, "Maybe if you paid us more ..." but he never got to finish his sentence because Demetri suddenly grabbed him by his throat and lifted him off the ground.

"I'm sorry, were you saying something just now?" Demetri questioned. "Do speak up. You know how I hate mumbling. I believe I wrote that on the request form, didn't I?"

"Yes!" the manager choked out. "Yes, you did! Now, could you please release me, sir? I'm having trouble breathing."

"Are you?" He tightened his grip, eager to see the man's face change colors. "That's unfortunate."

"Demetri," said Felix as he slowly approached the two of them, "you know the rules: no hunting in the city." The tall, burly man towered over the panicked manager like a hungry lion looming over a mouse.

"It's not hunting if the prey comes right to you."

The suffocating manager looked to Felix for help, but he found none. Instead, the man smirked and said, "How can you argue with that logic?"

Eventually, the manager's face started to turn purple, so Demetri reluctantly released him. "Next time, get it right," he warned.

After a few gasps and coughs, the manager composed himself and then smiled at both men. "We greatly appreciate your feedback. Do stay with us again soon!" and then he ran over to the next departing guest and delivered the same spiel.

Demetri frowned. "Commercializing was a bad move. Now everything tastes so _generic_."

"It tastes the same. You're just too picky."

When the elevator arrived, the two men stepped inside and rode it all the way down, further down that any other guest was able to go. "Did you have a good night at least?" Demetri finally asked his associate.

Felix shrugged. "Couple of kids snuck into one of the brothels and had themselves a little feast. It was a total bloodbath, with bodies everywhere you stepped. You would have hated it. And when we got there, the kids were so drunk they had no idea what was going on. They didn't think they did anything wrong."

"Did they do anything wrong? It's a brothel, for crying out loud. They're doing us a favor by cleaning that place out."

"Say what you want about the Gutter, but it's still a part of this city."

Demetri scoffed. "Barely."

"But there was something strange there," Felix went on, allowing the memory to consume his thoughts. "A lingering odor ... something foul." _Something I haven't smelled in a long time, but it's not possible ... They couldn't still be a threat, here least of all. _

"Well?" Demetri pressed. "What was it?"

Felix laughed it off. "It's a brothel, what do you think? But enough about that; I know how you hate such crude discussion. Tell me more about this new secretary Heidi found. Is she as pretty as the last one—what was her name again?"

"Adrianna." The name tasted so sweet on his lips, and he couldn't help but smile proudly at his grand accomplishment. "But this new one, she is nothing like that. Adrianna was a fine wine, and this one is like piss in a bottle."

"That is harsh, Demetri."

"But true. She's one of the gutter rats—a petty thief, in fact. Heidi caught her trying to steal from us and decided to bring her down. A thief will be working for us now. Yes, we've sunk that low. There was a time when nobles would spend years grooming their daughters for such a position, and now we get peasants. I don't think I want to live in this world anymore."

The peasant he so despised was setting up her new desk when the two men arrived. Demetri almost didn't recognize the girl now that the filth of the street had been wiped away, but he could still smell it her skin like a deep stain she would never be able to remove. Just as all the secretaries before her, she was dressed in Heidi's image, in a sleek black dress that went down to her knees, but she lacked the womanly curves necessary to fill it out. Still, despite all this, Felix considered her a great success.

"You're right," he said with a smirk, "she's absolutely hideous."

Demetri rolled his eyes. "A peasant in silk, but a peasant no less."

"I would have her, peasant or not."

"And there lies the difference between us: I have taste and you don't."

Felix shrugged. "That may be so, but I'm still happier than you," and then he strolled right up to the front desk, where Dahlia sat paging through the large binder Heidi had placed on her desk before leaving.

_It's full of schedules_, she realized, _bus schedules, plane schedules, even train schedules, and they're from all over the world, some places I've never even heard of. And these companies, I've never heard of any of these! _ _- How am I supposed to keep up with all this? _She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she didn't even notice Felix's presence until she felt his hand beneath her chin, forcing her gaze upwards. "... Yes?"

He was placing so much of his weight onto the desk that he could have easily broken it. "Hi. How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," Dahlia replied before jerking her head away from him. She hadn't meant it as a rude gesture—she just wanted to get back to work—but it was quickly interpreted as so; and when she saw the look of displeasure on Demetri's face, she knew she had made a mistake. Quickly, she rose to her feet. "G-Good morning, gentleman!" and as she lifted her hand to wave, she knocked over a cup of writing utensils, sending the whole thing clattering to the floor.

Demetri gave a dissatisfied grunt. "What did I say, Felix? No manners at all." Before taking his leave, he snuck one last glance at the woman, just to see if he'd made a false assumption, and all he saw were the big, brown doe eyes of an empty-headed child. _What a waste_, he thought, and as he strode off, he purposefully crushed one of Dahlia's pencils with his foot.

"Relax, kid," Felix said to the girl as he watched her clean up the mess. "The first day is always the hardest. A little advice, though: I would try to stay on his good side if I were you. He has a pretty nasty temper."

"Thank—" She glanced over her shoulder and realized that she was all alone. "—you."

. . .

After leaving work, Nicolas remembered very little of his night, so when he woke up the following afternoon in the grungy pits of a local bar, he was most confused. The owner woke him with a kick to his leather shoe and said, "I don't know how you got down here, but you need to leave right now."

Nicolas rubbed his face with his dirty hand, instantly taking in the stench of himself: a foul mixture of dirt, sweat, and cheap booze. "What time is it?" he asked.

"Nearly one."

"Great." Gathering his strength, he staggered to his feet, and as soon as he was upright, his head started spinning, making him lose his balance and fall forward into the bar owner's arms.

"You need me to call you a cab?" the owner asked. "I can't let you walk around like this."

"No cab," Nicolas uttered. "I'll be fine."

The owner helped him as far the door and then sent him on his way. Using his hand to shield his eyes from the glaring sun, Nicolas stumbled down the streets of Volterra while battling a mind-splitting headache. _Never again_, he declared. _Never again_, and then he bent over and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the street. He heard gasps from the people around him, and one woman even had the nerve to call him a drunken fool, but he didn't care. "Piss off!" he shouted as he pushed through them and clambered up the stairs of the city hall, the same stairs he had climbed so many times before, but today he lacked the energy to reach the top. Halfway up, he collapsed onto his knees and just lay there, taking shallow breaths.

A tiny hand touched his shoulder. "Are you alright?" a woman asked, and for a second, Nicholas could have sworn he was hearing Adrianna's soft voice.

He smiled at the woman, loving how her chestnut brown hair shimmered in the sunlight, just as it always did. "You're okay!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I was so worried." At last, he found the strength to stand, and then he pulled her into his arms. "You're okay now," he whispered as he stroked her hair. "I'm never going to let anything happen to you again. I'm gonna take care of you now, I promise." He placed a soft kiss on her forehead, and when he pulled back, he realized the woman in his arms was not Adrianna. It was the new secretary, Dahlia, who'd just returned from her lunch break with a box of leftovers.

Nicolas felt sick again. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm so sorry. Please, excuse me," and then he ran into the building.

Just outside the mayor's office, his young, cheerful secretary was busy filing her nails, and when she saw Nicolas enter, she greeted him with a warm smile. "Good afternoon, Nicolas. Glad to see you're well. Your father was so worried when you didn't come in this morning."

"Is he in?" Nicolas asked.

"Yes, but he's on a call right now. If you could wait—wait, you can't go in there!" She jumped out of her chair as Nicolas strode past her, but she wasn't able to stop him from kicking the door open and slamming it in her face.

The mayor was, in fact, on a call when Nicolas so rudely broke into his office, but Michele barely blinked when it happened, as he was accustomed to such childish behavior from his eldest, especially after a night of drinking, and he had been drinking. The smell of him was so strong that it smothered every other scent in the room.

First, Michele calmly finished his call while his son sulked in the corner, and then he hung up the phone and said, "Had a few drinks, did you? I thought you had this problem under control, Nicolas, or has all my money gone to waste?" He reached again for his phone and started dialing the number for his next meeting. "Go clean yourself up. I don't need you here today."

Without any hesitation, Nicolas snatched the phone base off the desk and then threw it against the wall, shattering it into hundreds of pieces that were as sharp as glass. "This is all your fault!" he shouted. "She came to you for help, and you did nothing! She wanted out, and you did nothing! You sent her in there, so you should have protected her!"

"Adrianna was responsible for herself. She read the contract, so she understood the risks."

"What about her replacement? Does she know the risks, too? No, you just sang her a sweet little song about how much easier her life will be. You didn't tell her the truth because if she knew the truth, she would never agree to it. You're a piece of shit."

Olivia quietly entered the room to see what all the noise was about, and Michele said to her, "Show your brother out. He's not himself today."

"Yes, Father." She reached for his arm, but Nicolas slapped her hand away and walked out himself. "What was that all about?" she asked her father.

"Nothing. Don't worry about it. Just make sure your brother gets home safely."

"I will."

Nicolas was slumped against the wall when Olivia found him, and before she could ask what was wrong, he said, "She was terrified, Liv. She begged me to get her out of there, but I couldn't help her. I should have done something—anything—but I didn't. I betrayed her."

"It wasn't your fault. Adrianna knew what she was getting into."

Nicolas shook his head. "No, she didn't because we never told her. We threw her to the wolves! How are we any better than those _things_ downstairs?"

"Because of this, because of the remorse you feel for her death. By feeling something you're already better than they are."

_Am I? _Nicolas wondered. _I certainly don't feel any better. _

Olivia arranged for a car to pick up Nicolas and take him home, but as soon as she was out of view, Nicolas stepped out of the car and started walking down the street by himself, searching for any place that would serve him a drink. _I'm gonna drink 'til I forget_, he decided, _'til I forget it all._

* * *

**Alright, I know this was a pretty uneventful chapter, but I need to build up the conflict, so just bear with me during these slower chapters. There's a lot of stuff going on, and I'm taking my time with it. **

**And werewolves, at least as Meyer describes them, are kind of complicated to deal with since their true form only emerges during a full moon. I'm trying to keep them involved even though they're not actively present as a threat. They will be, I promise, but right now we're going to focus more on the people infected and ... other stuff that I can't get into without giving away plot details. **

**The next chapter won't be up until I update my LOTR story, so it'll probably be a week or two.**

**Lastly, now that Felix has been introduced in the story, you can find his character image on my profile page in the "Media" section. **

**Thanks for reading and please review!**


	7. Temperance

Chapter 7: Temperance

_It's only three o'clock? _Dahlia stared at the wall clock in disbelief, her mouth agape. _I thought working for an organized crime family would be dangerous and exciting, but this is just as boring as any other office job! _

Having nothing to do and nowhere to go, Dahlia decided to dig through the drawers of her desk. In the first two, she found stacks of useless files that she didn't feel like paging through, but in the last drawer, she found a designer purse that was full of interesting things, like cherry red lipstick, hair products, hand lotion, a pair of sunglasses that were much too big for her face, and, best of all, a leather wallet full of money. The purse belonged to a beautiful Italian woman named Adrianna Labruzzo. Dahlia found her ID while she was going through her wallet, but seeing a name and a face certainly didn't stop her from swiping the dead woman's cash and shoving it in her bra.

Demetri was passing by the front desk while Dahlia was digging through the purse, and when he saw that lowlife sticking her dirty fingers where they didn't belong and stealing Adrianna's hard-earned money, something inside him snapped. "You filthy little vulture!" he growled, and then he ripped the purse right out of her hands and whipped it against the wall. The purse exploded upon contact, its contents flying out like shrapnel, spraying over the both of them. Bits of glass and plastic disintegrated upon striking Demetri's armored flesh, leaving him completely unscathed. Dahlia, unfortunately, was not so lucky. Demetri could smell her blood in the air, pungent as a steaming pile of cow dung; it clogged his nose and made his stomach churn.

"You are so revolting," he couldn't help but say, and then he grabbed her wrist and yanked her to her feet. In an instant, his fingers dove into her bra, making her gasp and squirm like someone had dumped a bucket full of ice down her dress, and the sensations lingered long after he'd withdrawn, clutching the money in his fist. Whimpering, Dahlia squeezed her eyes shut in anticipation for his next attack, and Demetri chuckled at the sight of her. "What a pathetic little thing you are." He had much more to say—and do—but an unsettling presence forced him to stop. Twisting his lips into a smile, Demetri glanced over his shoulder. "Hello, Heidi."

The mahogany-haired beauty was standing with such poise, her face perfectly composed and without a single line or wrinkle, but her eyes were full of fire. "What are you doing?"

"Catching a thief in the act." He showed her the money as proof, not that it mattered.

"Come with me, now."

"With pleasure." Straightening himself, Demetri smoothed out his jacket and dusted off the powdery debris before following Heidi around the corner. In hindsight, he shouldn't have bothered to clean off his jacket because it got dirty again when Heidi slammed him against the wall. Strangely, his jacket was all he could think about as the she leered at him.

"I don't know what you're planning, but you'd better stop right now because I'm getting sick of cleaning up your shit."

"But you do it so well, Heidi." He flashed a charming smile, but even that couldn't stop Heidi's hand from lashing across his cheek, her sharp fingernails carving deep into his skin. The wound mended itself in seconds, and Demetri just laughed.

"What's so funny?" Heidi asked.

"You are, Heidi, for believing that you have any authority over me."

Now, Heidi was laughing. "Oh, I know I don't, but Aro does." She paused for a moment so that she could watch that arrogant smile leave his face. "You think he doesn't know what you're doing? Come on, Demetri, I thought you were smarter than that."

Demetri clenched his fist but said nothing, so Heidi went on talking. "Aro sent me with a message: Get it together, or you'll be answering to him. You know how he hates to get involved in these petty disputes, but by disrupting our work environment, you've left him with little choice. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get her out of here before she stirs everyone into a frenzy."

Demetri rolled his eyes. "As if she could do that."

Oh, but she could. While the elder guards had no trouble restraining themselves, the younger, less experienced members were struggling to control their innate urges. Little by little, the thirst started to get to them, like a horrible itch they couldn't scratch. If the irritant wasn't removed quickly, well, Heidi would be needing to find another secretary.

The girl hadn't moved since Heidi took her assailant away; like a frightened child, she stood trembling in the corner. Her body was covered with tiny cuts that were dripping with blood, but the stench of her was more horrific than anything. Without even tasting her, Heidi knew that her blood was of a very poor quality, probably because she was of poor health herself.

Heidi snapped her fingers in front of the girl's face. "Hey, snap out of it. We're leaving." When she failed to respond, Heidi grabbed her wrist, the same wrist Demetri had taken, and the girl winced. "What's your ...?" Upon closer examination, Heidi noticed the girl's wrist was swollen and badly bruised. "That son of a ..." She clenched her jaw, holding back her anger. "Okay, hospital first, then home." _And for his sake, it had better not be broken._

. . .

When the clock struck five, the mayor's staff started to pack up their things and leave for the day, but not Olivia Distefano stayed at her desk. Outside her office, she could hear women gossiping and making dinner arrangements, much like she used to do with Adrianna when she was still alive. Adrianna preferred small restaurants with good, hearty food that was easy on her budget, but that was before she accepted the position downstairs. After that, it was always the very best of what Volterra had to offer, and she would never settle for less.

"Why did you do it?" Olivia wondered as she reached for a photo of them from their university days, back when Adrianna preferred libraries over designer stores, and comfy jeans over suffocating dresses. "You didn't need them. You had us. You were like family."

But, as her father always reminded her, she was not family. She did not share their blood.

As she placed the photo back on her desk, Olivia saw something move across the borders of her vision, something black as a shadow. Rising from her chair, she walked to the door and peered outside, glancing up and down the dark hallway, seeing nothing. But someone was there; she could feel their eyes on her, traveling up and down her body. Shivers rippled over her, and it was hard to say she didn't enjoy it because she did. She loved the intoxicating rush that came with the fear of knowing something so dark and powerful was just downstairs, and at any moment one of them could burst into her office, tear off her clothes, and rip open her throat. Part of her wanted that more than anything, and she fantasized about it every night.

"Olivia, dear," Michele said, pulling her away from her thoughts, "are you almost ready?"

Olivia smiled. "Yes, Father, just let me get my coat."

They went to dinner together, as they usually did after work, and at the restaurant they were joined by Elena Distefano, Michele's second wife and stepmother to his children. The Parisian model turned socialite was ten minutes late, and when she finally arrived, she spent another ten minutes chatting with the other patrons like they were very dear friends. In truth, she had met them only a few times and barely remembered their names.

"Hello, darling." She greeted her husband with a soft kiss on his cheek and then turned her attention to Olivia, who was only eight years younger than herself. "Oh, you look beautiful, Olivia. Is that a new dress? Funny, it looks just like the one I wore last week. Such a lovely color, isn't it? Hard for many to pull off, but I don't need tell you that."

Olivia rolled her eyes. How she hated to be on the receiving end of her backhanded compliments.

Elena frowned. "Where is Nicolas? He's missed dinner again."

_More like dodged it_, Olivia couldn't help but think.

"He's not feeling well," Michele answered. "We had to send him home early."

"Oh, that's too bad. I hope it's nothing serious."

"He'll be just fine. You needn't worry."

She replied, "I'm a mother. It's my job to worry," and then she went on to talk about her day, but her stepdaughter couldn't bear to listen. Leaning back in her chair, Olivia gazed aimlessly around the restaurant until she locked eyes with one of the busboys, who was busy clearing the table beside her. She smiled at him, and he smiled back, his eyes shamelessly traveling down to the bust of her dress, where they stayed for quite some time. Olivia welcomed his eyes, even turned her body so that he could get a better view, and then her fingers drifted toward the hem of her skirt, hiking it up ever so slightly. By now, a small but noticeable bulge had started to form in the man's pants.

"Excuse me," Olivia said upon standing, "I need to visit the ladies' room for a moment."

"Would you like me to order for you?" her father asked.

"Yes, please do," she replied before leaving, and as she passed the busboy, her body accidentally brushed against his, making him go completely stiff. "Pardon me," she said. "I'm so clumsy sometimes."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. "It's perfectly fine."

"Good." Her rose red lips curled into an innocent smile, but her wicked brown eyes were sending out a most scandalous invitation. Before receiving his answer, Olivia slowly made her way to the bathroom and waited.

She didn't have to wait long. Like a dog driven mad by a bitch in heat, the busboy busted open the door and pushed her into one of the stalls. There was nothing gentle about his manner; it was hurried and desperate. He clumsily undid his belt and yanked down his pants before slamming her against the wall and plunging his throbbing appendage into her. Moaning, Olivia squeezed her eyes shut and listened as the bathroom stall rattled back and forth. For a moment, Dahlia wondered if they could hear them outside, if her father could hear them. What would he think if he heard his precious little girl being rammed by some busboy in the bathroom of his favorite restaurant? The thought alone was almost enough to push her over the edge. Almost.

"Bite my neck," she begged.

Her question interrupted the man's steady rhythm. "What?

"Bite me," she repeated, tilting her head to one side. "Please, bite me."

He laughed. "You're a little freak, aren't you?" Still, he obeyed, and when his teeth pierced her flesh, a surge of pleasure hit her so hard that it knocked all the air out of her lungs. Gasping, she dug her nails into his back and rode the waves until they finally settled; then she let out a satisfied sigh.

"Okay," she said after catching her breath, "get off me now."

He stopped in mid thrust. "... What?"

"You heard me. Off."

Baffled, the busboy did as she bid and withdrew himself. Not knowing what else to do, he stood in the stall with his pants around his ankles while she redressed and cleaned herself up. Before leaving, she placed a small wad of cash in his hand. "Thanks," she said with a smile, and then she rejoined her family in the dining room.

When she arrived, her stepmother was busy talking about the fire that destroyed several brothels in the Gutter. The story was exciting enough to make the front page—or at least a portion of the front page. Unfortunately, the story was greatly overshadowed by the opening of a new art gallery. "It just makes me so sad," she said, "that people have to live like that."

"Yes, it's a tragedy," Michele agreed. "Should we order dessert?"

. . .

Covered in bandages, Dahlia lay in her bed, lazily flipping through the television channels with the remote. Thankfully, her wrist was not broken, just sprained, but the doctor who examined her found the bruise most suspicious, which led him to ask a series of questions that made Dahlia very uncomfortable, so she refused to answer any of them. "You can tell me the truth," he insisted. "This is a safe space. I won't judge you."

"You already know the answers. What more do I need to say?"

But Dahlia didn't care about any of that, not the nosy doctor or even the pain. At that moment, all she could think about was how soft her bed was and how warm and safe she felt beneath the layers of blankets.

_Émile would love this place_, she thought, a smile spreading across her face. _I know he would._ She wanted to tell him all about this place and her new job. She wanted to show him all the new dresses she'd received and all the amazing food she'd eaten—he would have loved that most of all. But he would never know. He would never see. _He doesn't know where I am_, she remembered, her chest tightening with anxiety._ He doesn't know at all. He must be so worried! – I have to find him!_

Two petite forms blocked the television. They'd been standing there for quite some time, but Dahlia was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn't notice them until the little girl spoke.

"Someone said you were dead," Jane said. "Clearly, they lied."

"No, I'm not dead," Dahlia replied, her eyes nervously shifting between the both of them. "How did you two ...?"

"The door was open," Alec answered. "You really should be more careful."

"Right, I will. Thank you."

"Are you in a lot of pain?" Jane asked with great eagerness. "I heard your wrist was broken."

"No, I'm fine," Dahlia started to say, but then she felt a strange stinging sensation in her arm, like she had a very sensitive sunburn, but the skin looked perfectly normal, not even a bit red. Over and over, Dahlia rubbed her arm, as if she thought the friction would somehow lessen the pain, but that only made it worse.

"Are you okay?" Jane suddenly asked, and then the pain went away, just like that.

Dahlia froze. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You seem tired," Alec said. "You need to rest. Would you like another pillow, or a blanket, perhaps?"

Dahlia shook her head. "It's late. You two should probably be heading home."

He shrugged. "I'm just trying to make you feel more comfortable," but his words were empty, like he was reading them off a script. "Let's go, Jane."

"Feel better," said his sister, "and pleasant dreams."

When they left, she sank deeper under her covers and eventually fell asleep. The room was quiet apart from the television, which saturated the room with a light that altered its brightness with each passing scene. The room was nearly dark when the door opened, but by the next scene, the television illuminated Nicolas's form as he stumbled around the room. He practically collapsed against Dahlia's dresser, and then he started rifling through the drawers, pulling out articles of clothing and bringing them to his nose, desperately searching for the familiar scent of lavender, Adrianna's favorite fragrance.

"There you are!" he cried, holding the cloth against his cheek, remembering her soft caresses. "I'm so sorry! ... I'm so sorry ..." He looked toward the bed then and saw her sleeping so peacefully that he just couldn't help but approach her. "I'm gonna keep you safe," he said as he tenderly stroked her cheek. "I'm gonna keep you safe this time," and then he leaned down to kiss her.

"It isn't her," said Demetri, instantly destroying Nicolas's perfect illusion. Straining his eyes, Nicolas stared into the far corner of the room, where Demetri was sitting with perfect posture, his face obscured by the shadows.

"Pity, isn't it?" Demetri went on. "I myself am quite disappointed." He took a quick whiff of the air, his senses immediately becoming overwhelmed by the stench of alcohol radiating from the man. "I know you. I've seen you before, hanging on Adrianna like some parasite."

"And who are you?" Nicolas challenged.

Demetri leaned forward just enough for the light to catch his blood red eyes. "Her shadow."

Nicolas's body stiffened. "You're from downstairs."

"Yes. To think, we've been working together for so long and yet we've never actually met. What a shame." Demetri rose to his feet. "Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, but I have some business to attend to, so you'll have to excuse me ..."

Before leaving the bedroom, Demetri took something small out of his pocket and placed it on the dresser, knowing full well that Nicolas was watching him. He lingered around the foyer and waited for Nicolas's response: a sudden gasp followed by quiet sobs, absolutely heart-wrenching to hear, but Demetri smirked and walked out the door. "It would have been a lovely wedding."

* * *

**Demetri's kind of an asshole, isn't he? Love him or hate him, he is who he is.**

** Anyway, in the next chapter, Dahlia's gonna visit the Gutter, Nicolas is gonna do something even more crazy, and some new characters will be introduced, including a guard member and a new enemy. Plus, Christopher will be back on his hunt.**

**Thanks for reading and please review!**


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